In the winter, people want color. It’s the snow that does this to us. As beautiful as the white blankets are, resembling clouds, marshmallow cream, cappuccino froth, or someone’s idea of Heaven, this beauty is daunting after a while. This is especially so when the sun comes out – the blinding reflection of bright white-as-white-can-be.

Color combats this suddenly felt disorientation of whitewhitewhite. Today, I picked up an African Violet that grows in a small gold-painted pot, I put in against the window, and a joyous feeling crept into me when those pail violet petals burst through the snowy background. There is no wonder, my oft-historical mind thinks, that poetry grew from such beauty, contrasts of nature, metaphor for life and all it gives.

Poetry is replete with images that burst into a fertile mind – hell, even the television-addled mind – where they make emotion come to life because what comes from the page is what we all feel at some time in our lives. If you’re lucky, you get to feel every emotion on a weekly basis.