The Chill

A cold winter chill crept though the air,
In through the window,
Up over the stair,
It roamed round the house,
It roamed with intent,
As quiet as a mouse,
It lacked any scent.

It moved fast,
It moved without delay,
Finding it's target,
Finding it's prey,
It crept up his spine like a cold icy sliver,
It made him shake,
It made him quiver,
It moved to his hands,
To his icy fingertips,
Red was his nose,
Blue became his lips.

Layer upon layer of scarf, glove and hat,
The chill crept through the clothes, skin and fat,
Prompting the action of a situation quite dire,
Gathering up what he could he started a fire.

The fire grew hungry,
The fire grew fat,
With tongue of flame,
Tasted the boy in his hat.

He rolled like a marble,
A rapture of colour and heat,
When the fire at last sated,
The boy was black to his feet.

Through all his effort the chill had not gone,
For at times it pays - to put the heating on.

Made in Scotland

Bred in Wales, educated in Cornwall and working in England. Living among the cafés, coffee shops and clichés of Christchurch. Plumen light bulbs dangle in pendants above the dining room table, Bertoia diamond chairs are draped in fur throws and a rosewood Eames lounger is home to an owl shaped cushion with button eyes. I’ve operated under the guise of a designer since 2008, dabbling in the ink, pixels and vectors of brand and building between the parentheses of web development.

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