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The wind shouts at my face,
My imagination opens its mouth and shouts back,
Shouts ‘Fuck’ in the face of the wind.
The wind stops.

The wind just keeps shouting.

The rain shoots a hundred holes,
And further, a hundred more,
My imagination draws shining silver from a dull flat leather,
And fires a thousand holes in the clouds,
And further, a thousand more.
The rain stops.

The rain just keeps firing.

The cold bites unrelenting at its victims,
Pulling limbs from torsos and lapping up the blood,
Spitting it back on noses and fingertips,
My imagination grows fangs and gnaws and nibbles and crushes the cold,
Swallows it hole,
It is cold no more.

The cold just keeps biting.