The panes are white with it,
each one a map of somewhere cold.
I turn the heating up a notch
and wait for the orchids to forgive me.
Outside, the gulls are complaining
about the harbour, as they do.
Inside, it is always a little tropical,
a little ridiculous, a little brave.
By eight the frost gives up.
Water runs down the glass in threads.
The palms shake themselves awake
and I put the kettle on.
This is as far as the free sample goes — the rest of Glasshouse Weather is waiting for you.
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