Ice On The Inside

This is no false memory

or nostalgia for harder times.

I remind you of white days,

water in the veins of the town,

crystallised.

More than summer's searing sun,

past solemn winter solstice,

I remember the relentless season

progress.

Indoors and unblessed,

watching child's breath plume

into dragon smoke.

The insufficient house besieged

by the callous weather's worst.

On the window pane awakened

an opaque disease,

stained glassed overwritten

by winter's fingers of ice

on the inside.

Hard fangs invaded our domain,

hand carved from the bones

of deep down Scotland,

January's claws inside

our home.