Sitting here is monotonous.

The voices fade out around me,

and the teacher is a blurry face burning

in the heart of the fire as my hands stretch out,

reaching for the warmth of the laughing beast.

My withered fingers are sleeping inside

their mini-cosy, striped and woollen

with a round gleaming button shining on top.

When I turn a moment to gaze listless

past these walls I hear snow falling,

crisp, even and clean against the autumn sky.

Soft rays tripping silently from the clouds

as I dream - I am creating angels in the dying grass

that we’ll watch in awe as they

ascend into the heavens,

snow as their wings.