En Parlant Du Temps. (Translation) . Poem by Michael Walker

An older man is talking to his fiend about the cold weather, taking it over-seriously. He says that winter has 'got its teeth in', and it will get much worse before it gets any better. When his friend comes to, he will find a very low snowfall. His friend's dead grandmother out on the verandah can't remember snow as low as that either. He repeats that it will get a lot worse before it gets any better, and they are only just starting.
I read this as deliberate, alarmist pessimism about the cold, snowy weather. The touch of 'your dead grandmother/ out on the verandah' is quite subtle.