Winters in England are not as cold
as I expected them to be.
Outside, it tastes
like spring,
all wet and windy and just slightly
warm, snow miles
and miles across an ocean,
coating roads I used to drive.
In the park nearby, the grass seems to quiver
in anticipation, ready to host
vibrant friends of pink
and lilac and orange,
ready to welcome blankets weighed down
by baskets of bread
and cheese,
while legs pale from winter stretch out
and laughs clink to the tune of wine glasses.
But then I remember that the sun sets
by early afternoon.
The streets are so cold that my breath
paints the night white, and I
am a fool.
The old year hasn’t even been properly mourned,
and spring is nowhere near.
And yet, the air tastes of it.
Darby Brown is an emerging writer and poet from Nashville, TN. She has recently completed her MA in creative writing at the University of Birmingham in England and now lives in London where she continues to fall in love with the way words and stories can lead us toward a greater understanding of ourselves and the world around us. In addition to being a monthly contributor for HYW, she serves as an editorial intern. Follow her on Instagram @darbybrownwrites.
