Parka

In the blustery British winter, when the wind bites keen,
A sturdy parka hangs beside the door, its hood a silent screen.
Cotton‑lined, with a fur‑trimmed collar, it wards off the drizzle’s sigh,
Pockets deep enough for gloves, a map, and a warm apple pie.

Its olive‑green or navy hue recalls the mist‑clad hills,
Where walkers trudge through peat bogs, chasing distant thrills.
The zipper glides smooth as a river over stone,
Press‑studs fasten snug, leaving no chill to roam.

When snowflakes pirouette over cobblestone lanes,
The parka becomes a shield against the icy strains.
Children tug at its sleeves, laughing in the frost,
While commuters pull it tight, hoping not to be lost.

Even in spring’s reluctant thaw, when showers still persist,
The parka waits, folded neatly, ready to resist.
A loyal companion for the fickle British clime,
It keeps us warm and dry, come rain, come shine, come time.