A cold, Icy morning

The more he walked, the more he could think.

The clouds gathered over head, dark and threatening they loomed over the town like a bad omen. They roared with laughed at his suffering; withered hands clenched around his supporting stick as the cold winds of winter nipped at his fragile skin. He peered through his glasses but was obscured by the frost that grew. He watched the crystals grow for a while, allowing his brain to be emptied -distancing himself from the numb sensation that had washed over him. He had hoped the morning would bring the beauty of the ice for sure, that crunched under his boots. The bold morning air had greeted him, not as warmly as he had hoped. But now he could watch as his strained breath rose up as a cloud in front of him, joining the white puffed clouds in the distance, eager to invite them to his town.

What he was greeted with however, was anything but.

The people who joined him on the street didn’t seem to mind the mornings chill, with children running and laughing as they passed, cheery and bright despite the gloom the weather would normally bring. He watched, their smiles lighting up the pavement, illuminating the solemn crystals that grew relentlessly. Everyone else seemed immune to bite of the cold air. They continued down the street as normal, carrying their bags over their shoulder as if it were nothing. He watched them rush down the street, talking happily on the phone whilst smiling at passers-by. He remembered happiness like that, but it distanced itself from him that morning.

The cold breeze blew straight threw his thick insulated coat, clawing at his skin. It seemed insistent on stopping him this morning, the cold biting at his rose-tinted cheeks, tugging at his hat. Winter air swirled around him, consuming him to its grasp. Mercilessly, the winds howled, roared and cried out to him like a desperate plea for sanity. He had none to offer.

The grey clouds grew closer and closer.

He continued to struggle down the ice-covered street. His hair fell flat against his forehead, salt and peppered, and blew in the violent surge of air. If he had been more prepared, if he had more to do, if he wasn’t so alone, then he wouldn’t have felt the need to have left his house this morning.

Winter had come like a spell from an enchantress, water frozen and once pastel grass cursed to be frosted with ice. There was no hint of warmth left, nothing of the autumn or the sweet kiss of the vanquished sun. The clouds had swarmed the street, stealing even his body heat with indecent speed. He pulled his coat firmer around his body, with no success of keeping himself warmer. He trudged on, trying to ignore the condescending whispers, paying no attention to their mocking tone. He was reminded of his solitary in the house, with only the memories to keep him company.

The clouds seemed to relish in their victory; they finally wore him down.

The man clenched his hand as the cold winds of winter bite the air.

The more the pavement was pounded relentlessly by the droplet, the more he struggled to see. I seemed insistent on stopping him this morning, the cold biting at his withering hands, clawing at his rose-tinted face, tugging at his thick insulated coat. The winds howled, roared, and cried out to him like a desperate plea for sanity. He had none to offer.

The damp leaves on the street laid bare and vulnerable to the attack, having no protection. He felt pity.