The wind blows cold

I am once again negotiating the anniversary of The Great Breakup, and I fear the savagely cold weather of the past few days has been exacerbating the annual attack of wistful nostalgia. (It's probably just as well she's out of the country at the moment!)

Here's something I scribbled down when in similar brooding mode this time last year.

What she wore

Ours was a wintry affair.
And so, although I've known her
Now in all seasons,
Mostly I picture her still
Layered in wool,
Thickly armoured
Against the north wind's knives:
Knitted dresses, knee-high boots;
That leather jacket;
Gloves and shawls and scarves;
Once, even, a woollen hat;
Those boots.


Seeing her again,
For the first time in months,
On a warm spring day,
I was surprised to find
That sandals and sunglasses,
A floral skirt and loose white smock
Had little power to provoke
My fantasies or haunt my dreams.


These thinner clothes.
It seemed to me,
Left her too exposed:
Showed her more gaunt than slender,
More gawky than skittish;
Less elegant, less mysterious;
More slight in mind
As well as form.


But if I saw her now,
With the weather turning cold again,
Might her winter wardrobe yet revive
My former lust?
Would I claw open
The buttons on her coat,
Run my eager hands
Over the soft, warm wool
Clinging to her body,
Unwrap the muffling scarf
To plant my steaming kisses
On her cold face?

I think perhaps I would
(If she would let me).


I must remember her
In spring and summer,
When she was less bewitching:
Just another pretty girl,
Nothing special to my heart;
An old friend waiting
To have lunch with me,
Nothing more;
Reading a book in a coffee shop
With casual impatience.


I must not see her
On a frozen street corner,
Stamping her booted feet
Amid the snow,
Panting white smoke
Into the icy air;
Waiting for me
With a more pointed impatience,
Waiting for me
With quite a different expectation.


I still have in a cupboard somewhere
One of her winter shawls.