Snow. Falling.

Snow. Falling.
Lee.

Christmas languor scents the air; seeping into homes, roads, trees and souls of people who crave respite from the winter and their everyday toil…

Clouds the size of small nations creep along the horizon, pregnant with snow, promising to birth a scene reserved for Christmas cards and BBC period dramas. How I wish you could be here to share what I see and what is to come: I think of you, you see, at this time of year more than any other season, any other festivities. I picture you in a snug, woollen, multicoloured coat, a coat which would make Joseph’s Dreamcoat, pale in comparison. On your head, a bobble hat struggles to keep your shining hair beneath, whilst your cheeks, normally the colour of roast chestnuts, has the tinge of the winter’s kiss, but shy are your hands of gloves or mittens, because my hand is your glove, your warmth. I should be feeling the cold all-too-well, but your face is a brazier that can thaw the coolest of winters, the hardest hearts of men.

Sharpest winds have induced the clouds. Flakes the size of cricket balls fall with grace, their sacrifice a blanket for homes, roads, trees and souls of people craving respite from the everyday. Our footprints of Christmas past, present and future, are crunched into the snow as we walk to somewhere only we know, yet only mine leave a trail. Christmas is here, but the gift I wanted, isn’t.