it is a sparse sort of day
of struggling light
and freezing hours and hands
that can’t ward away
the numb from stiff fingers
the crows are quibbling
over something fallen
in the street beneath
the lamp post where in
twos and fives they’ve
taken to diving at it
and at each other
quarrelsome in the weak
late afternoon light
best to remain inside
with the kettle on
and feet swathed in
double pairs of
defiant-colored socks

© Sarah Whiteley

Is it too soon to be wishing for spring? I found myself looking forward to cherry blossoms already yesterday.