It is February

It is February and the snow has come
in tiny flurries so a skim of white
lies everywhere; and through the cloud the sun
shines weak and watery, its halo bright.
At last we may just find conditions right to ski,
though Scotland's mountains are not high.
I'll make the trip tomorrow since I'm free,
supposing that the snow's not blown away.
Then months of inactivity will tell.
The twisting and the leaping make their point
and later aching muscles will be hell,
as will the stiffness felt in every joint.
It will be my decision made me go.
My wife will only say "I told you so".



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