December 2008

[Sweder]

Stepmother’s-breath
hissing through barren boughs
dispensing discontent,
cold as a witch’s kiss.

Scandalmonger of the fields,
grips ragweed by the forelock
to lay across the hills
and beat away the dirt.

Hickory switch, finger wagging
at a sprinkling of frost-flakes
leapfrogging through ochre fields
and playing knock-knock—

upon Black Caps parlor door.

[SIZE="1"]with apologies to Debbie Ouellet[/SIZE]

I set off for some BHTT 5K torture at a quarter to nine - OK that's leaving it fine even by my tardy standards. As I approached the roundabout at the A27 I spied a line of Police cars blocking the road to Brighton. Must be some black ice, or maybe a nasty shunt further up, I thought. That, or an elaborate attempt by the authorities to prevent my seasonal corpulence from damaging pedestrian pathways. In any event I wasn't getting to Hove Park in time so I turned tail, vowing to take the hounds on a five mile plod across the downs instead.

Brother it was cold out there today. Frost lay in the shadows, a dusting of icing sugar on a pudding of a track. Fingers of sunlight thawed the mud in places, creating groin-wrenching skiddy sections. In others the ground remained cold and hard as Condoleeaza Rice at a press conference.

New Hilly gloves, courtesy of a series of heavy hints in the direction of Sweder Jnr, replete with useful toweling first finger (for unavoidable cold-weather nose-dribble), proved up to the task of keeping my fingers attached to my hands. Leggings were essential too, holding my errant knee firmly in place as I dragged my turkey-stuffed carcass across the hills. That North wind, heartless, flesh-slapping, no respecter of layers, flayed me to the core, keeping my pace honest and my face turned slightly to the south. The hounds rejoiced, apparently unphased by the deep chill, gamboling in the yellow sunlight, as ever just happy to be out, running free.