January

Muffled, huddled, scarfed, with narrowed eyes,  
Our shoulders hunched, our noses red and raw,  
We trudge up Chiswick High Road for supplies,  
Like troops after some hard-fought, bitter war.  
We see the desolation all around,  
The damage wrought by Winter’s long campaigns,  
The bare, black trees, the barren, iron ground,  
The floods and breakdowns, power cuts, cancelled trains.  
Our uniforms of hats, caps, hoods, coats, boots    
Are dull and shapeless, but we hardly care,  
If you stay warm you couldn’t give two hoots  
What other people think of what you wear.  
But in our hearts, ‘How long, Oh Lord,’ we sing,  
Till February and some promise of the Spring?’