No it ain't. It's pretty freakily warm actually. If you visit the rose garden at Stanley Park you will see beautiful roses which smell like July. Very strange. Which reminds me of a line from one of my songs which wasn't going to be a part of this post but it's here now so it might as well say hi:
Those Brushes
Enormously satisfied, soaked in a shaken spray
Wilder than that dear
Stars flown in your vortex
I'm pushing my daisies in places again
You lick a small insect
I guess at unknowable
Knowns
Enormously terrified, fingertips scrambling
String, crumbs and pennies
Dried daisies and grasses
Grey slate mirrors stillness
And you mirror everything
All that was seen in a glimpse
From the cradle
Enormously gratified, fat bubbles languishing
Puppetry took a dark turn
Towards Grizedale
I have left a damp spot in your roses -
Again
You've silver and gold dear but the paper eludes you -
Still
The breeze is alluring, she'll never commit
There's shelter for you if she's fond of those brushes
I am dusty and rubbing the grit from my portals
I've scratches that scarred but no cure
For you
So it would appear that you're going to get double the fun this week because what I actually came on here to post was a poem. Because it's colder in my mind than it is outside right now:
Black to Blue
Wild thoughts spark off a snow-crust kerb
Matchstick moments burst like urgent kisses before
Fizzling for want of a heart(h)
Indigo lips pressed
Throat wrapped tight
Blue eyes sheltered from that
Cold, colder, freezing cold.
Little Match Girl, sentenced to life on the street
Little flame shrinking in isolation
Little hands clutching at frail threads
Little charity for the dirty girl.
Issues lurk behind frosted windows
Structures and fractures and blood on the rug
History lures like flies to a corpse
Matchstick girl dies again
Not for want of fire but
From surfeit of cold.
The image is from: http://weezz1337.deviantart.com/art/The-Little-Match-Girl-192329387
Those Brushes
Enormously satisfied, soaked in a shaken spray
Wilder than that dear
Stars flown in your vortex
I'm pushing my daisies in places again
You lick a small insect
I guess at unknowable
Knowns
Enormously terrified, fingertips scrambling
String, crumbs and pennies
Dried daisies and grasses
Grey slate mirrors stillness
And you mirror everything
All that was seen in a glimpse
From the cradle
Enormously gratified, fat bubbles languishing
Puppetry took a dark turn
Towards Grizedale
I have left a damp spot in your roses -
Again
You've silver and gold dear but the paper eludes you -
Still
The breeze is alluring, she'll never commit
There's shelter for you if she's fond of those brushes
I am dusty and rubbing the grit from my portals
I've scratches that scarred but no cure
For you
So it would appear that you're going to get double the fun this week because what I actually came on here to post was a poem. Because it's colder in my mind than it is outside right now:
Black to Blue
Wild thoughts spark off a snow-crust kerb
Matchstick moments burst like urgent kisses before
Fizzling for want of a heart(h)
Indigo lips pressed
Throat wrapped tight
Blue eyes sheltered from that
Cold, colder, freezing cold.
Little Match Girl, sentenced to life on the street
Little flame shrinking in isolation
Little hands clutching at frail threads
Little charity for the dirty girl.
Issues lurk behind frosted windows
Structures and fractures and blood on the rug
History lures like flies to a corpse
Matchstick girl dies again
Not for want of fire but
From surfeit of cold.
The image is from: http://weezz1337.deviantart.com/art/The-Little-Match-Girl-192329387