I stop as I feel the phone vibrate in my pocket
release my left hand from its glove by biting
the finger tip. I walk slowly towards
the Institute of Mathematics. Underfoot
the Penrose Paving glints with frost.
The sun is low and there is a ghostly moon –
it floats, paper thin, as if lit from behind.
Clouds gather in the fading sky.
It may yet snow, I think.
It may yet snow.
My reflection in the glass ahead is multi-edged.
My breath turns to vapour, white, about my head.
The text message is brief: tells me
get home, soon.
At the foot of the double doors in front of me
a brown feathered bird. Beautiful.
Sarah is a writer of poetry and prose, a nurse and a keen amateur photographer. She is interested in words, words for well being, people and nature and the connections between these aspects of her life.