When the summer comes; we will be ready. We grow so tired of these cold winters that gnaw at the bones and turn the skin as cold as death. We do not want to spend long dark nights listening to the howling wind as we huddle closer to our stuttering fires.
It will be good to feel the heat of the sun on our naked skin again; to feel warm summer breezes rather than be bitten by the cold sharp winds of winter. Colour will return to these grey lands and there will be sudden rustles in the undergrowth as life comes, grows and spread through this land once again.
Our ancestors came to these cold winter lands a long time ago, times when the world did not seem as cold as it does now.
We should turn away from this place, head back over the southern seas and look for a land that does not pile its winter days up one on top of another for month after month, until no-one can remember the summer, until it seems summer is just a word, a tale told to the children as they huddle and shiver, drawing closer and closer to the fires, hoping for some warmth in their short lives.
One day, yes, we will have to go south and find a land of long summers, even if we have to fight and die to take it, to hold it. Such a life – however short – would be better than these narrow cold lives of endless winters.