The Season of Winter

The season…

Of wearing wellies and well-worn woven wrappings for warmth, whilst walking wild woodlands.

Of waking weakly in the wee hours to witness wisps whirling from wood-fire and wicker, wrapped in a welcome blanket, aware of waning whispers, one’s wit wavering and wayward.

Of the world-wise whittler wincing from the wicked windchill, wandering home to well-being, wringing water from his wet woolens.

Of weather’s wrath; wailing winds washing woeful weekends with worry and wretchedness.

Of watching from a weeping window, a world weighted with white, whilst wily wolves work a withered wound in the earth for welfare.

Of worthy wards waltzing with wealthy women to Wagner whilst weary waiters weave with wieners, wedges, wafers, sweet waxes, whiskey, wine, wheat beer and warm wassail.

Of wonder; waist-coated Wenceslas’ words, waxing lyrical, wrought of wisdom and well-wishes.

Of witches and wardrobes.

Of ice; inhospitable to all but the inuits who inhabit the intimidating tundra inside their igloos, icicled in-between each other with instinct, though not immune to the immobilising itch and impediment of an invisible illness.

Of inebriated idiots imbibing and imploding with the irresistible impetus of the id; incensing their inactive identities by indulging in illicit intentions incarnate, ignoring their intrinsic impartial internal for an involuntary and illustrated imagination.

Of an inactive itinerary. The ideal occasion to impart the importance of isolating indoors – a time to inspect iliads and iambic metre, involve oneself with image and ideas, identify and include the idyllic and immaterial; the imperative to imbue and instil these incredible items as one would ingurgitate the icing off a cake. The impressive inclination to implicate the ‘I’ in information.

Of impeccable skies that illuminate the idle world in intense ivory and imperial gold, before imperceptible clouds ignite the immaculate illusion with insidious streaks, like the interwoven ichor of an immortal idol; the innocuous issues of an icarus whose inauspicious invention and impulse proved inferior on impact with the infinite and impervious ire of the sun. These indefatigable islands of Ishtar increasing and improving into infinite iron nimbuses of immense and immeasurable size, insulating the inner-firmament; intruding and immersing the initial indigo-ink of the innocent sky.

Of informal party games; indubitably imitating international icons identically, until impish Isabella, investigating the internet from her iPad, interrupts the impersonation to inform the immediate surrounding of the answer, “Ignacio Montoya, the infamous Italian impaler!”.

Of the impersonal I.O.U. in lieu of a gift if one’s interest in institutional investments hadn’t the inclination to increase that year, and the impending ill-will of irate kin.

Of Saint Nick near the North Pole, nosing through his naughty ‘n’ nice notes, taking notice of the needy, nominating nought to the nefarious ne’er-do-wells nor the nonbelievers.

Of neutrality among nemeses; the Nelsons and Napoleons of our number neglecting their negative naval nuisances to negotiate niceties and newfound neighbourly notions.

Of nabobs noshing on nations’ native nibbles – Najaf nougat, Naples neapolitans, Nagasaki noodles, Nagpur naans, Nezahualcoyotl nachos, and New Jersey Nutter-Butters anointed with the nectar of Northern Italy, Nutella – the notorious narcissists nonplussed by the nappy crumbs nesting on their napkins and neckerchiefs.

Of narrating nail-biting novels, Neverending Stories and nostalgic narratives; narrow-escapes in Neverland, a niggardly Noël naysayer, a napping noble who nipped her nub on a needle, neurotic New York nincompoops nude in a nouveau noir, Nosferatu, North by Northwest, and even Nanny McPhee.

Of braving nocturnal jack frost, who nips at the nose and the nape of the neck, to see the northern lights; nature’s network of neon nacre, navigating the nebula like nerves and neurons, from nascent nadir to the zenith of nothingness, via Neptune.

Of nuts and nectarines, and ‘nog with nutmeg – necessary nutrients near November’s end. Then nuzzling in your nightie until nodding-off to the musical notes of the Nutcracker, among the nifty nicknacks and nosegays of the night.

Of the New Year.

Of the tempting tomfoolery of truant teens and tots traversing the tundra to tumble on toboggans.

Of trekking tranquil trails, the territory transformed into a twinkling talc-tinged tableaux of titanium white and turquoise, twig-tangled trees and thistle-thriving thickets tight in translucent tombs, tarrying for more tepid temperatures tomorrow to thaw.

Of topsy-turvy technicolour theatre; the traditionally talented thespian translated into the tawdry Widow Twanky – the tedious twin twits, Tweedles Dum and Dee, teasing and tickling her. The tremendous trio twisting and tripping to the tish-tosh of the tambourine, and the tittering of toddlers with their teddies. With a ‘Tally-ho!’ they triumph, and tenaciously thwart the terrible thaumaturge, trashing his terrifying thingamabob and taking the treasure. Ta-dah!

Of travel troubles; tail-ends and traffic jams. Trains, trams, taxis – all transport – totally trapped ‘twixt snow trenches, tires sticking to tarmac and tense truckers throwing therapeutic tantrums.

Of thatched Tudor taverns, its tubby tenants tucking on turkey with turnips and tatties turned in tallow, a tankard of tasty thick treacle at their thumb, their tables touching the toasty torch of timber, and their throats tingling from tobacco tar.

Of thanks.

Of existing in your element, embracing events ebulliently and energetically. Enacting the extrovert and enthusiastically embarking on extracurricular excursions from early morning to evening, until exhausted. Then, when empty, eking out an effort’s more energy to engage in even more eclectic and exciting entertainment; an everlasting encore of ecstasy.

Of experiencing the emergency of our endangered environment; eagles evolved to escape the extreme effects of the earth through elevation, but even their eyries cannot elude the explosive escalation of erosion and emissions exuding from engines and empires expanding elsewhere. On the edge of this extinction epidemic, the eventual end of every eel, elephant and evergreen. This egregious elimination, our error.

Of extraneous earmuffs on the exceedingly elongated ears of elves, these enchanted employees eating eclairs with eggnog, enveloped in eiderdown sheets, their emerald eyes eager and enquiring.

Of expressing empathy, esteem and equality for everyone. “Be excellent to each other”, expressed expeditious eccentrics.

Of Rudolph’s reliable radiant red raspberry, a revealing ray as he runs the relentlessly rough route, reducing the resplendent Father Christmas‘ risk of a regrettable rooftop ricochet.

Of the recently recognised religion: retail. Restaurant rendezvous, rejuvenating retreats, and reinforced rucksacks of rare relics. The rushed refund and resulting reimbursement relief.

Of rejoicing with relatives, and the ritual of remembrance and relaxation.

Of recuperating from the ruthless rabble-rousing and raucous rampaging. Regurgitating a rainbow river of rancid rhubarb rum.

Of realising that reciting relevant rapport (regardless of rhythm or rhyme) is a rather ridiculous routine to resort to, but after reflection I cannot resist rambling, and so resign myself to refine this remarkable rhapsody.

Of rest.

Of Winter.