The cold wind blows and blows and blows
And we huddle within ourselves
We grasp at what is left
Of what is not bereft
Of that hope which inside us delves
And shelter ourselves in our woollen clothes.
The wind is cold, but so is this lost world
And that something inside us knows
Of yet another way
Without futile delay
To cast ourselves free and exposed
And in the wild whirling gale become unfurled
For that faint heat inside must soon succumb
To the cold wind that blows, that blows, that numbs.
16 February 2005