Brutally Mild By Mathew Byfield.

He’s brutally mild in all his unkindness

The morning is cold and full of his quiet

Soft whispers of air place their hand to our door

No knocking to enter, just simply inside

Creeping past covers, small fingers discover

Our warm spots lay fallow ‘til spring to uncover

An adventure of tiles – we put on boots, coats and caps

Yet he reaches small chinks and rends in our armour

But winter is sleep-ins and snuggles with sweet little faces

He’s hot chocolates and hugs and warmth with my wife

He’s good scotch and a book in front of the fire

He’s long words with old friends a joy to desire

So winter can come on his seasonal tour

And I’ll mind not the mornings – they’re sweet to endure.


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