Snow lies thick along the branches
In a photograph black and white
Only it’s real and everything is moving
And it’s cold when the air comes in
Through the frame of the window’s edge

What is the matter with the fire
You’ve been poking it all morning long
Still the wood is hardly even burning
And your breath is an icy cloud
And your nose is Christmas red
Anyone else would give up by now

You’re not a creature of comfort
You’re a photograph black and white
You’re a threadbare chair from the thirties
You’re a solo violin wind
Through the frame of the window’s edge

Snow lies thick along the branches
You come draped in a blanket shawl
Maybe all I ever wanted
I never really wanted at all
And the flame in your eyes
Isn’t black and white