Snowflakes twirl downwards, blind.
I draw butterflies on the carriage’s window,
leaving a temporary mark on glass. An engraving,
made of my cold fingerprints.
They’re my vantage points
as the other windows obscure the outside.
Sunset peeks in, the horizon undeterred
by the snow that has bedridden Britain.
Another train floats past. I hear
its drone, the locomotive just visible
with lights. Commuters huddle inside;
they look like an oil painting.
I hiss hot mist on my window.
Winter lives on as my breath melts;
undoes the wings
of a butterfly
that fingers once drew.
I draw butterflies on the carriage’s window,
leaving a temporary mark on glass. An engraving,
made of my cold fingerprints.
They’re my vantage points
as the other windows obscure the outside.
Sunset peeks in, the horizon undeterred
by the snow that has bedridden Britain.
Another train floats past. I hear
its drone, the locomotive just visible
with lights. Commuters huddle inside;
they look like an oil painting.
I hiss hot mist on my window.
Winter lives on as my breath melts;
undoes the wings
of a butterfly
that fingers once drew.
Most of the time, it's really difficult to avoid being wordy in my work, so this was a test in simple language, borne out of one of my regular journeys towards Waterloo on the South West Trains carriage...
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