A winter in Greymouth. The world in the morning is grey and cold. The reluctance to get out of bed and start the day stronger than ever before. Stepping out the door the wind whips against any exposed skin. The ground damp from the rain earlier. But little frost is visible. The grass soggy underfoot, instead of crunchy, as should be. The brisk cold days bring wild winds and clear blue skies. The black, wet days bring heavy, grey clouds and soaking rain. Some trees stand stark against the sky, bare corpses. Yet most remain green with leaves. Evergreens. Year after year, a pleading for snow. Yet only the mountains in the distance are scattered with a thin covering at their peaks. I wish for white days. For snowmen and snow fights. Followed by thawing out in front of an open fire, drinking hot chocolate. Give me a winter, Greymouth.