… snowed inn …
there are things we return to each winter…
the world gets quieter, snow blankets the familiar landscape…
frost finds its way onto the windowsill…
well-worn paths begin to fill with footprints…
at the edge of the sea, the inn wakes to another season…
a place to hang your hat, your scarf, your coat, your trainers, too…
the bell sounds…
a gust of wind announces another arrival,
flannel funmix and prince of wales pleats check the cold at the door…
inside, in cable-knit cashmere, the season is warm…
the innkeeper has strung the garland…
winter light falls long across the floor,
and the days are counted one by one…
everyone has arrived with something in hand…
we find ourselves in fine company…
the cards are dealt, the evening plays on,
pull up a chair, put on your fair isle,
everyone gets a seat at the table… there are surprises in store…
some are best kept under wraps,
four grey corners, folded just so…
a flurry of snowflake jacquard,
and hector holiday intarsia…
winter wears a pattern of its own…
all tied up with a bow…
the last light slips below the horizon,
evening sharpens at the edges…
down-filled for the occasion, we follow suit…
crisp at the collar, rosy in spirit…
dinner runs long… candles burn low…
outside, the cold tide keeps its own time…
some rituals are reserved for after dark…
black tie… milk and cookies…
not a drop left to drink… until the wind picks up again…
and with a sudden gust, we’re off…
