Bodies are burning their oil lamps brightly

from the windows overlooking the church  

their silhouettes shape-shift on the bedroom walls

as they move from room to room,

neither stand still long enough for you 

to grasp who or what they are,

televisions flicker in accord

as if planned in some way, it’s strangely romantic

as if part of a passion play – and I am the only one here to watch 

condensation gathers on peeling window frames,

Jack Frosts fingerprints pressed firmly against the pane 

and with these seasons turning like pages

he’d better count his blessings

he’s not swiftly removed by morning.

 

It’s as if we return back to the dark ages

when the clocks go forward the hour,

now it really feels like winter,

I can feel her splinter pushing deeper and deeper

through my neck and feet, my hands are numb

as I cup them to my mouth and exhale to warm my noise,

a gust of wind strips the blanket white 

that rests upon the hedgerow 

Christmas is only a week away

and these streets are all so familiar, 

reminiscent of Machynlleth, back in the day, 

the town was buried under 10ft of snowfall 

the year was 1982, I was still in middle school.