Nobody in "Met Bulletin" is named, and nobody speaks. Ram Krishna Singh gives us a snowbound group of men, referred to only as "they", and watches them from outside, the way a report would. The poem never says where the place is. The runway, the planes and the "fibre huts" suggest a remote station cut off by weather, but that is an inference from the details, and the poem doesn't confirm it. What it does show is that when the outside world stops arriving, survival turns into boredom, and boredom turns into waiting.
The first stanza is built from absences. "Snows all around" uses an unusual plural, as if one snowfall had followed another. Then comes "no supplies no planes", with no comma between the two. The missing punctuation makes the losses pile up without a breath, and the whole poem is written this way, without capitals or full stops. The stanza closes on "the runway all white". A runway is a made line, a promise of connection with elsewhere, and the snow has wiped it out. The whiteness is blankness, like a page with nothing written on it. The words "all around" and "all white" also enclose the stanza, so the reader feels as hemmed in by the snow as the men are.
The second stanza turns from the landscape to the people, and the tone drops. "Surviving" sounds heroic, but it is immediately shrunk by "their little store", where "little" does a lot of quiet work. Then the time scale widens. The first stanza counted "the last seven days", but now the supplies must last "for the winter". The reader realises that the week of snow may be only the start. The "fibre huts" add to the unease. Fibre is a light, manufactured material, so the shelter looks flimsy against so much white.
The most telling line is "bored they drink more often". It is almost comic, and that is the point. The drama we expect from a poem about isolation and snow is replaced by something smaller and more believable. These men are not fighting the elements. They are passing time. The phrase "more often" matters too. It doesn't say they drink more, only more often, so drinking becomes a way of breaking up empty hours, a substitute for a clock. The poem doesn't judge them. It simply records the habit, in the flat voice of someone taking notes.
That flatness is the poem's main technique. There is no rhyme, and the lines are short, mostly six to eight syllables, with the rhythm of ordinary speech. The sound does some work, though. The hissing s in "snows", "supplies", "surviving" and "store" is like wind across a snowfield. The poem ends on one of its longest lines, "and wait for the met bulletin", which drags a little, as waiting does. There is also an irony in the ending. The men are surrounded by weather, yet they need a bulletin to tell them what it will do. Their hope has shrunk to a technical report. "Met" is an abbreviation, the kind of bureaucratic shorthand that sits oddly against the immense silence of the snow. The poem also borrows the bulletin's manner: it is terse and factual, and it holds back any feeling.
The poem matters because it takes a situation that usually invites adventure and finds ordinary human experience in it instead. Eight short lines are enough to show how isolation reduces a person's world to a few things: a dwindling store, a drink, a scrap of information. The poem withholds both rescue and disaster. It stops at the moment of waiting, and the reader is left to feel how long that moment lasts. Because it asks for nothing grand from its subject, it stays in the mind as an honest picture of what endurance often looks like: not courage, but the next hour, then the next, until the forecast changes.