As Winter Raged
Winter was at war. Her subterfuge: Crumble grey-white flakes upon the scene.
The air, dead; Dead too, the sound – Blunted by the whitewash. Motion, dead – Bluing chill saw to that.
Everything ground to a halt – Like an empty train, crawling, seizing; Eventually to die sprawled along a ghosted platform – A lifeless plain of concrete.
I still had far to go – Or so this brain computed – Tried to – Inside my own raging storm of white noise, Howling in its desperation.
Now wild, blitz-wild, I bore an irrepressible thought – A goal, focus, idée fixe:
To clasp a frosted hand around A radiant mug of sugar-laden Calorie-heavy Full-fat milk chocolate – Steam wraiths writhing over A freshly-spooned whirlpool, Sultry in their invitation: ‘Come, sip, sip some more; Soothe yourself in balmy richness.’
I still had far to go…
– Mark Slaughter
aromaticcoffees 