We held ourselves close in the stuttering cold
as, from somewhere away over the rooftops
two dogs debated which was the colder,
and a few streets to our right a flare went up,
its parabola of stark, saturated light
redundant in the snowblind, starched evening.

You laughed at nothing, baring
teeth like off-kilter tombstones
to the assembled throng, while
behind us somebody
hacked up a mouthful of phlegm,
spat it noisily and stamped their feet.

A flint snapped, and a spliff was passed around,
its fragrance sweet and herby, inviting
smiles of familiarity and expectation.
All-surrounding came the creak
of crisp, virgin snow underfoot and
the rub of leather-on-leather,

the sighing sussuration of cloth
against cloth; hands deep in pockets
as the freeze bit at knuckle and joint,
we waited upon the hoped-for speech,
the rousing to arms, which never came.
A shame, we all later agreed:

we'd built ourselves up for a good one.
Boredom, then impatience inexorably
overtook us and we turned our attentions
back to the mundanities of our lives.
Someone behind me muttered,
"and we missed Corrie for this?"

Not long after, as we broke off into groupuscules,
and individuals splintered from the
dispersing crowd, with gossamer wisps
of vapour illustrating the hubbub of
goodbyes some wag shouted, "it's whisky o'clock!"
and a ragged cheer went out.

M. Peacock 131222/24323/21425