Encased beneath the snow,
This cold, east wind
Cutting like blades,
But amongst it,
The shivering air,
The deliberate choreography,
Of people getting by,
The memory of you,
In my t shirt,
Commanding a cup of tea,
From a warm pillow throne,
I allow you to pretend,
Whose in charge, baby girl,
These wintry indulgences,
And the promise of warm,
Buttery skin and the springy
Press of muscle beneath,
Not a disposable martyr,
But a man about his day,
Tongue pressed to the roof,
Of my mouth,
Imagining the wicked games,
To keep out the cold,
And yes, a cup of tea,
As a gift without expectations,
Set on the side as I rejoin you
Beneath the blanket ceiling.
MB Blissett 