Beyond The Window* Poem by Ian Bowen

Beyond the windows
patterned by the configurations
of small leaf shapes of ice,
only the very tops of fences
have not been rubbed out
by your sudden, silent fall.

Covering my garden
in sheets of white,
you now become my jailer.
My early morning lights
flicker as I search for candles.

You will not feel
the bottoms of my shoes.
For today is a day for warm slippers,
log fires, extra clothes,
hot chocolate, cuddles,
deserted roads,
and phone calls
to disappointed bosses.