The January man has turned away from the closing door.
Voices fade. He looks from a window over a city
offering snow, the whiteness of snow, perfectly placed;
snatching high-rise flats from the brink of nullity;
pierced by steeples, tall and blameless. He knows of darkness
under bridges where a canal and an underpass lay low
to let slip what we learn from snow, snow being aimless.
Since truth, he thinks, is a matter of taste. Others are being
born. Others have died. It is cold, a reason to stay inside.

The February man sits down on a wooden bench. It is cold.
Sparks from an early pint have dulled to an empty wait.
The park is blank. Lakes and swans are a kind of white.
Primed with not-yet night, sky is faintly studded;
water, slapping at watermarks. He can just make
out beside a muddy bank, fat tench - a murky stronghold.
Cold-blooded, they don't know what winter is. Breath
...