Boil the kettle.
Look out the window,                                  
To a world full of golden hues.

Red, Orange, Beige,
The crisp sound of leaves crunching,
as you feel the frosty wind hits your face.

The cosy cream cardigan,
you bought at a car boot sale.
It has arrived,
the time of nights in by the fire.
Endless cups of tea and walks in the rain.

At this time of my life
I find myself wearing hats…
I’m not happy with my head you see,
In short, being able to see it
it just doesn’t thrill me.
Not through those depressing, disappearing strands.
So it’s that time - It’s hat time!

Hats are warm, comforting things;
take it off and, for a while at least,
it feels still there - a phantom hat.
Not quite as spooky or worrying
as a phantom arm or leg - after that
severed limb thing, but right there!
It really is that time - It’s hat time!

My Grandma Lamplough,
that’s on my mother’s side,
was an avid knitter of things to order,
She was even a freelancer for Jaeger…
matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers
But in later days mostly just tea cosies.
If there was no immediate customer in mind…
“Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all”
she would say… and anyway,
commissions were rare for cosies back in the day

She’d wear it boldly herself
with handle and spout slots front & back, proud
She’d start the next one and announce
to every visitor right out loud…
”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your ***?
Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot!
But then he showed up every day!
A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today!

Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig
or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig ….
I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret,
news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate
and avoid the comb over till a later date.
Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?

The din of winter is a window away
I've come here to stay at my Grandmother's
The bedroom aglow in her yellows and reds
The lamp by the bed

Beckoned by hands and a magical timbre
I'm starting towards her in answer,
recalling her manner
Her habits preserved as in amber

Sat by her side and embracing her then
I'm suddenly a child again,
her eighty-two years to my ten

The magic of winter, is all around.
The magic of winter, every sight and sound.
Snowflakes and snowmen, getting cosy in bed.
Soft scarves and mittens, bobble hat on your head.
Red cheeks and noses, warm homes all around.
The magic of winter, every sight and sound.

Happy Winter.

What is homier than your bedroom?
Having God hold your hand.
What is cosier than your blankets?
God's promise forever to stand.
What is more intimate than your pillow?
God's thoughts of love for you.
What is more snug than your pajamas?
God's grace carrying you through.

Talking until dawn,
But no abnormal atmosphere.
Revealing the secrets;
There's a sudden high tempreture.
It becomes midnight,
We think 'too early'.
It becomes cold.
We soon get cosy
Under the blankets filled with warmth,
As we are too shy for a midnight call.
Sleep comes to us so we say goodnight
While longing for one's cherished sight.

What am I without this
toxic insanity that twists
my every move? Nothing,
that's what I am, what
I would be without me.

Maybe feeling normal would
wash this burning passion
for difference, which I love so
dearly, away. *If that is the case,
I will be abnormal any day.