Winter’s time is running out.
We’ve got it in a corner, trapped and on the ropes.
Its fangs are out, now,
Weaving and striking for the throat,
And pale with desperation.
That final slice of predatory cold
Glints in its eyes,
On the windows,
In the fires,
While winter waits on its whiplash spine
Intent on the creeping ring of flame
We lit to kill it.
It knows that everyone will eat its blackened skin
Bleached on the bone and crispy with lemon
And now its time is running out
With everybody’s finger on the trigger.
The cold is cowering and everyone is laughing
As we shuffle forward in our huddled lines
Holding hands while winter spits
In our eyes, looking for the undone button, the naked flesh.
But it has no hair
And it is running out of time
And it knows it.
Edward Alport is a proud Essex Boy and retired teacher. He occupies his time as a gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry published in a variety of webzines and magazines. When he has nothing better to do he posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.