The horizon lies at my nose end

The horizon lies at my nose end

The sky, as grey as the muddle

Of a watercolour

The sharpness clouded

The meaning blotted out

In a swirling artless blur

Strangely intriguing

Now you mention it.

It is a devil’s wind

A bellow of angry roars

With needle points

Stabbing icy perforations

Into the skin.

A badly wrapped scarf

Is no substitute for

A winter warmer

There are no bad clothes,

Tell that to the homeless

Living under canvas.

They aren’t all veterans of

Foreign conflict

Survivors of desert warfare

Sand storms

And hatred

But they all come to know it

Pretty quickly.

Gap-toothed smiles

And warty faces

Are a prerequisite

For survivors

Or they go hungry.

When I reach safety

The underheated flat

Seems like a haven

On a cold day.

Priorities are never far

From being subverted

By the belief that things

Can only get better.

Nothing really matters

If it can’t be touched

Hugged

Pulled and plumped up

Ask the dog

He’s in a prime location

Like a food taster

The heat has to go through him

To get to me.