This afternoon I was feeling a little low so (at the advice of a dear friend) I bought myself some poetry. I think Sylvia Plath's Ariel and I will be great friends throughout the coming winter months...
The word of a snail on the pate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling
All to itself on the top of east
Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one -
Love, love, my season.