Hot & Cold

Cold! Cold! I'm talking vests
and long johns. I'm talking icicles
in underpants. I'm talking snowballs.

I'm talking brass monkeys and
the thickest woolliest pair of socks
you could hope for dream of.



'Hot!' you say. 'Hot!' For you
it's deckchairs and sunbeds and
every window open. It's

a headfirst dive into a heated pool. It's
not having to test the water, break
the ice, say you're sorry.



I guess we're talking...

Snowshoes. Barbecues. Igloos. Sleigh
rides. Sunstroke. Frostbite. Antifreeze.
Sun cream. Cold. Hot. Freeze. Thaw.


Nevertheless, it's better than before:

we're talking.




This morning saw me sadder than ever in my daughter's eyes. Out in the garden with rolled up newspaper on fire in one hand and camera in the other. It may have surpassed throwing a boot into the air a while ago and photographing its descent.

In case you missed it I wrote the following verse to accompany jenB's blip yesterday (30th November) at slow children playing where you can see her looking serene and stunning in her underwear!


Some Like It Hot

There are some who think that long johns
are not the height of fashion.
Those selfsame folk may well say
they don't provoke much passion.

But sometimes when you 'like it hot'
you seek a different heat.
You're satisfied with a warm glow
from your bum down to your feet.


Poems copyright Bernard Young 2010