Think Twice about the Cold

The cold is back.
This air tastes like knives, something sharp and prickly and not-be-messed-with. I barely notice the sea, except to catalogue the glitter of the sun on the father-water.
Everything like yesterday, still monochrome.
A still black-and-white photograph.
Eyes in old photographs, the slightly blurred butcher boys and flower girls longing for parasols. I try to walk the pavement in Victorian times, taste the air before street lamps and aircraft, and I'd buy penny dreadfuls instead of horror comics.
There are photographs of today, studied in the future, but no-one there will think twice about this cold.