her ancester’s portraits still look indifferent,
but there’s something new in her jewels of old:
the still quiver of an emerging cold.
Nan Maureen is feeling a bit chilly;
in her portraits smile Jack, Bill and Lillie
but beyond them, in her window creeping,
a white frost spreads its fractal breathing.
Tape down the windows with temperate thoughts:
it shall be cosy inside the casket
don’t waste an ember for biting remorse
and bring good ol’ nan another blanket;
some day it’ll be sunny in the cold Arctic,
but there’s no thawing for the cold-hearted.