J: View from the south

In the darkest corner of the year,
quicksilver shrinks into itself.

Wrapped deep in winter woollens,
people tell each other that it's bitter,
accents flat and fragile in the freezing air

and you strip off a layer.
Gently scald your skin,

recall far off Decembers, strung
like Christmas lights, with nights so long
the thin midwinter sunshine
screwed your eyes like salt.

You strip another layer.
Feel chill seep through your rippled flesh,
a slow drip down your spine, until
the centre of you is bone cold.

Strip off a layer.
Remember:
just how long you took to thaw.