Alison Wells Author

Dragon breath, an aura of chill, the cold nose of a dog, toes the endeavouring forward stepping fellows braving the Arctic extremities, the ice in the lungs, the cold plate of the moon against the tablecloth of sky, the remembrance of snow in all its guises, like sand, like polystyrene balls, like candyfloss, like the feathers of young doves, the gorgeous glare of it, a landscape put in place by Nordic gods.

A fire lit, the dragon flame roaring, the sweater pulled close, the click of radiators, the comfort of that, wood pellets tumbling into the burner, clink, clink. A creeping osmosis of warmth undoing the archipelago of cold digits adrift in the glacial air-sea. My body melts from the inside out, warm blood pulses, warm breath releases.