Pickering's "Winter" opens with a blunt statement of sadness and a strange comparison: winter is like a burned wick sitting in water, something that has lost its flame and can't be relit. From there the poem moves like a series of snapshots. People stamp and rub their hands against the cold, buds stay closed, the grass is discoloured, and a telegraph pole stands up like a tall letter A among the dead growth. Even the old walls seem to crawl toward the hilltops.
The speaker stays mostly an observer until the sleet arrives. Then it becomes personal, as one flake lands on their wrist. The ending is the most striking part: the light is a "phantom" left over from last April, so spring is only a memory. The mood is quiet, bare and a little haunted. Nothing dramatic happens, but the cold seems to settle into everything, including the speaker's sense of hope.