Sickly branches spread out from the bodies of comatose trees,
And her feet fall on leaves that have died,
Paper-thin corpses at one with the ground frost,
With each step she feels that she might,
Fall through the earth and plummet for years,
Leaving Welsh winters behind,

Crystalline grass blades stand neatly under silver pink skies,
She follows where the gravelled path snakes,
Her concerns now in stasis like the frozen fence railings,
Her worries all wait at the gate,
She smiles for a couple of old early risers,
Each smile back with a red winter face,

Prickly snow drops surf the breeze to land on her ears and her nose,
The rest of her is covered,
Wrapped up and smothered,
In an oversized faux fur-lined coat,

Soon she must leave and return to a life,
That is stern, unforgiving and real,
A black frosted bouquet that sits in the hallway,
Inches too far for the pane broken sunlight to reach,

Her December is ageing, restless and cold,
Outside of the park the streets are ice-worn and monochrome,
And as she walks,
Courting loss atop loss with wrought iron hope,
She knows full well that when she gets home,
She has much more to face,
Than unwanted presents and bad cracker jokes.