Midwinter Waking

Paws there. Snout there too as well.
Mustiness. Mould. Darkness; a desire to stretch, to scratch.
Then has the-?
Then is it-?
Nudge the thatch, Displace the stiffened leaves: look out.
How cold, How dried a stillness. Like a blade on stone,

A wind is scraping, first this way, then that. Morning, perhaps, but not a proper one.
Turn.
Sleep will unshell us, but not yet.

Midwinter Waking, Phillip Larkin

...Yup - that about sums it up!!