The Beast
From the East
Crept up in the dark
Dusting the park
With white
In the night,
Leaving a chill
On air far from still.
Flakes dance around
Teasing the ground,
To settle or fly
In circles on high.
Confused as they twirl
A continuous swirl,
Described as a squall,
Some don’t land at all.
To pitch or not,
There just isn’t a lot,
Though the weathermen said
It would fill us with dread.
Roads would be blocked,
Only tempers half cocked:
Rifts didn’t arise,
Not enough from the skies.
Stay indoors, we were told
But yet many are bold,
Donning mittens and hats,
Thick coats, not anoraks,
Layers and hoods
That will do little good
To protect from the wind,
Huddled up to the chin.
Temperatures fall,
Wind chill freezes us all,
Skies remain grey
It’s a miserable day.
The dog snoozes on
Her walk over and done,
Content on her bed,
Little more to be said.
A place by the fire
Is our greatest desire,
Cup of tea by our side
Not to venture outside,
To face the Beast
From the East:
This vision of white,
Well, perhaps not quite.
Photo: 8.30 am 30 November 2017.
We haven’t had as much as this today despite the weather warning
pensitivity101 