Ice wind

hits brutally, whipping rumour around the Beacon;

across the eastern plain, grey cloud smothers debate.

Blessed are you who weep now,

    for you will laugh.

Collar up, scarfs tight, thermal beanie pulled hard down,

glancing East and South; caught between two ill-winds.

Woe to you who are mocking now,

    for you will mourn and weep.

On the borders, white noise whispers chilled warnings;

to the north, numb blue lips discuss choked silence. 

12.2.22

©  Craig Muir 2022

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