Neck well swathed in scarf,
hands plunged in pockets?
Collar pulled high,
hat tugged low?
Off you go, then, down the long slope
to where the pale winter sun never penetrates.
The frozen grass, glittering with reflected light,
crunches under your boots.
Run a hand along the fence to see a battalion of frost soldiers crumple.
Lick the cold particles from your fingers,
and take a long sniff of the freezing air,
pungent with bare earth and stone,
as dry and prickly as a holly leaf - the smell of winter,
down in the frost hollow.