Bristol1

It's very wet here —

Although that's to be expected,

From outside one thinks of England as a grassy rock

Thrown against the fog and hail

Moulding there in the cold winds

Like a piece of old cheddar

In the channel.

The humidity seeps through

Thick socks, sweaters, woolen scarves

Looped thrice around the throat —

Any fissure and your pale, tender skin

Will prickle and shiver.

The clammy cold chills through knits

And flesh

To the bone.

Inside,

The kettle whistles

Blows a hot welcome geyser —

A jet of steam around which humans huddle.

Wrap your fingers around the mug

And already you feel the stiffness smoothed out —

Released, knuckles bending/unbending again —

But is it really good, to add more fluid to the balance,

To gorge yourself with more wetness?

Meanwhile,

Windows steam up, blown opaque with humidity —

They perspire, pearls of water forming —

Sliding down the panes —

Clear rivulets in their wakes —

A crystalline pointillist map of droplets and

Cold, warped smears, glistening beads falling

Collecting themselves,

Running down in branched streams —

Creeping, alive —

Wet.

Hand me the towel.