Lips, soft as velvet, primrose pink, Are rent the blue of bruising ink. They rive and crackle in the cold, Retract in tissue paper folds; Corroded strips as flayed as zinc Teased grey and gaunt, and growing old. Faint silver sands shake down like snow, Days melting slowly in the glow Of raindrop spheres which sadly swirl. The epilogues of chilled limbs curl And only snowdrop shells can grow, Their petal stems all sharply furled. Ice strives to anodise the throat And strangle any golden note. Breath hovers in a frozen cloud And ripples like a rimy shroud. The season seeks to crow and gloat In icy crowns, all poised and proud. Frost sleeps within our brittle bones And clots white water into stone: Fish paralysed in glassy halls As daylight ebbs and verglas crawls. Each speck of life is quite alone And cloaked in misty coffin palls. The year’s last act is spliced and split With wintry whips and heaven-spit. They sting the skull and smart the skin, Their lustrous coldness puncturing Our lungs in silent censorship. They dare the year to reach the spring. Annabelle Fuller is a student and poet from Yorkshire who writes for The Indiependent. She has had poems displayed in the V&A, Sigmund Freud Museum and Oxford University Church, and won her category of the Ilkley Literature Festival in 2016 and 2017. Her work can also be found in New Poetry Magazine and on the Poetry Society website.