Winter's coldness eludes measures

In winter, there is a certain coldness that still creeps around even after the curtains are drawn and the fire is stoked and roaring.

It grabs at your fingers and toes, holding them in a raw vice.

Whatever you try, you cannot shake it.

Even a feather-down duvet in which I envelope my toes and gather in my fists is no match for winter's signature chill.

Everybody else feels it too.

We don't even consider sitting by the fire, as the animals have already beaten us there and the threadbare carpet is not to be seen.

Multiple colours cover the hearth and dog bed.

All of the animals seem to settle their differences when the temperature drops - dogs to the left and cats to the right, at least 3cm between each furry body.

A look of pure ecstasy crosses all five whiskered faces.

The feline saucers, perched atop of their noses, are the colours of gooseberries and melted butter.

The deep chocolate beauties, which sit on top of short Jack Russell snouts, slowly disappear as droopy eyelids fall over them.

When ready to leave, it is like a sad farewell to a dear friend who ensures warmth and security.

Lingering that moment longer.

The old gold-painted metal door handle is a good indicator of what you may encounter when you step outside.

I place my hand on the lever and push it down. I hear the slow click of the mechanisms grinding.

Two words hesitate in the back of my mind. Hard frost.

The timber deck is a slippery trap, icy and hard.

It takes pure skill to make your way across the ribbed boards without sliding and falling.

You must be delicate and careful.

This morning, neither of these two techniques is used.

As I slip, I find it far too late to practise them as I topple.

The impact ripples up my tail bone and through to my spine.

Pain needles my bones, followed by icy chill.

As I curse my rushing, I inch my way to the edge of the deck.

The small grass audience wears icy frills.

I slowly rise to my feet; as I straighten, more pain pricks my lower half.

The morning catches my heavy breath and drags it slowly, in a white haze, off to my left.

The crunch beneath every step is almost deafening on such a still morning.

The grass has been tinted several shades whiter and is frozen in stiff tall angles, darting in various directions like small spears.

A single pair of foot prints ruins this one-toned natural carpet, showing up a limey green and revealing their destination - the letterbox, which rests in a bed of lavender across the ice-clad sea.

Down the driveway I hobble, towards the road.

The gravel drive is concrete; I cannot kick a pebble from its surface.

They have been glued down in a grey mosaic, not to be released until the sun has visited.

Never a moment late.

Its strong rays are stretched out in a greeting, but are feeble by the time they reach me.

This morning the shining beauty wears a mask of river mist, a band around her glowing face.

As the morning picks up, people and engines vibrate into life.

The slow hum they both produce become a fast roar as they warm up for the day.

But I cannot bring myself to join the rush.

I stand still, as the frozen dandelion beside me does too.

It waits for the sun's arms to stretch around it until its icy frills have melted away.

And today, I might do as the dandelion does and wait for that sun.

 


• By Sam Scholten (Year 12, Queen's High School)

 

 

It grabs at your fingers and toes, holding them in a raw vice.

Whatever you try, you cannot shake it.

Even a feather-down duvet in which I envelope my toes and gather in my fists is no match for winter's signature chill.

Everybody else feels it too.

We don't even consider sitting by the fire, as the animals have already beaten us there and the threadbare carpet is not to be seen.

Multiple colours cover the hearth and dog bed.

All of the animals seem to settle their differences when the temperature drops - dogs to the left and cats to the right, at least 3cm between each furry body.

A look of pure ecstasy crosses all five whiskered faces.

The feline saucers, perched atop of their noses, are the colours of gooseberries and melted butter.

The deep chocolate beauties, which sit on top of short Jack Russell snouts, slowly disappear as droopy eyelids fall over them.

When ready to leave, it is like a sad farewell to a dear friend who ensures warmth and security.

Lingering that moment longer.

The old gold-painted metal door handle is a good indicator of what you may encounter when you step outside.

I place my hand on the lever and push it down. I hear the slow click of the mechanisms grinding.

Two words hesitate in the back of my mind. Hard frost.

The timber deck is a slippery trap, icy and hard.

It takes pure skill to make your way across the ribbed boards without sliding and falling.

You must be delicate and careful.

This morning, neither of these two techniques is used.

As I slip, I find it far too late to practise them as I topple.

The impact ripples up my tail bone and through to my spine.

Pain needles my bones, followed by icy chill.

As I curse my rushing, I inch my way to the edge of the deck.

The small grass audience wears icy frills.

I slowly rise to my feet; as I straighten, more pain pricks my lower half.

The morning catches my heavy breath and drags it slowly, in a white haze, off to my left.

The crunch beneath every step is almost deafening on such a still morning.

The grass has been tinted several shades whiter and is frozen in stiff tall angles, darting in various directions like small spears.

A single pair of foot prints ruins this one-toned natural carpet, showing up a limey green and revealing their destination - the letterbox, which rests in a bed of lavender across the ice-clad sea.

Down the driveway I hobble, towards the road.

The gravel drive is concrete; I cannot kick a pebble from its surface.

They have been glued down in a grey mosaic, not to be released until the sun has visited.

Never a moment late.

Its strong rays are stretched out in a greeting, but are feeble by the time they reach me.

This morning the shining beauty wears a mask of river mist, a band around her glowing face.

As the morning picks up, people and engines vibrate into life.

The slow hum they both produce become a fast roar as they warm up for the day.

But I cannot bring myself to join the rush.

I stand still, as the frozen dandelion beside me does too.

It waits for the sun's arms to stretch around it until its icy frills have melted away.

And today, I might do as the dandelion does and wait for that sun.

 


• By Sam Scholten (Year 12, Queen's High School)

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