A Bitter Wind


Bitter bite, not a nip,
The wind is cold against my face.
Dancing grains of sand are blinding,
Doesn’t take much to displace.
Waves are angry, crashing tight
Foamy fingers clutching helpless
At the roughened shoreline,
Futile in their salty caress.
Coat pulled closer, hat held down
Gloves are missing, hands so cold:
Lamp posts whistle, slightly shudder
Lights are dim, no longer bold.
Pressing onward, home is calling,
Soon the warmth of a love so true
Makes things better over a cuppa,
Turn cheeks rosy that once were blue.

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