Wintry wind seeks no permission, yet to rob all soul-body heat to dereliction. It is the master of the storm clouds, the driver of hail, sleet and snow. Blizzards are its bonny playground. A spectral howl is its sweetest song. No aromas does it carry with grace, yet freezes all to Nothing's meanest fragment. Yet generous is this wind in wild whipping power, happy to batter the city and country for countless hours.

September 2026

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A wind of pernicious subterfuge did lower its roar to a whisper-whine, for the power of the iciest punch takes time to brew. Storm clouds snowballed ice crystals to insta-hail, ready to pelt at vilest nod. 'Twas the calm before the storm. 'Twas the big freeze of our age. 'Twas the time to seek the safety of home and to do so at the briskest trot.

December 4, 2025.

 

The wind was winter’s scarf, a plain knit of wooly ice. To bare boughs, to rooftop slates, to roadways and thoroughfares same: it wrapped itself in cruel delight, not once, not twice, yet thrice. It gusted and hollered. It twisted in warped glee, stealing heat, ignoring light. Yes, the wind that day was an unholy thing, unleashed with neither manner nor wit. Rude. It was rude. And, one doesn’t forget such a happening.

April 30, 2025.

 

Bleakest night laced itself with a frigid wind, a frigid wind threading intricate wire loops. Upon it was borne an impugning moan of curdling audacity. Cry! Cry! So it went on! Such a cruel limping immorality! As a faithful servant of winter’s seal the howl sublimated its passions, for a deft hand ‘twas it in creation of pretty snow and ice; so much delight did it bring. Yet on this most cold of days, ere nightfall was in full-flow, we fled down the cobbled street. We fled fleece-wrapped and sought sanctuary with faithful kith and kin.

May 14, 2025.

 

A thief wind did chill the road, the last of Autumn's warmth-pennies pilfered in entirety. A cadaver could not be more cold, nor more bluish in the failing light. Still. All was still, as if the world drew in collective breath. Leaves fell in slow motion as semi-shadows, semi-immune to gravity yet feeling her tendrils as overgrown ivy tugging, cajoling, insistent. The lightest of twigs clustered into a poverty of tumbleweed, whisper scuttling only for their chatterings to be half-inched by its team of pickpocketing gusts.

September 2, 2025.

 

Amid a wind of such deep chill that bones could snap and blood freeze still, the beach ball blew in its panicked dance. Whipped by a howling gale, deaf even to itself, all catching hands had been vanquished to firesides and Christmas hearths. And so it tumbled, on and on, its merry never-fade colours singing out. Then it wedged beneath a hut of peeling paint and shattered windows and, as if a ghostly Jeeves stood there, its door swung smoothly wide.

September 30, 2024.

 

The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking Castle's respite.

March 23, 2025.

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