‘Siberian’ spelt ice in 1963, when the thames froze and we discussed sparse provision to be made: a car rug; thermos; salt and a spade, as the wind whipped cold-sores mothers bathed, with tinctures uncles, gone to graves, had used to ease the pain of ice-blown toes.

Siberian spells icy now: the wind-chill’s target is the thames; its aim, to turn to stone, again, everything the uncles gave lives to save: a softening; an ease; each gentle soft spring breeze and autumns’ willows weeping leaves,

deferred, now, to freeze. 

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