Seven days of snow have cut off a small group of people living in fibre huts. No planes can land, no supplies can arrive, and the runway has vanished under white. The poem never says exactly where they are, but the huts, the runway and the weather bulletin suggest a remote outpost, perhaps a research or weather station.
The speaker doesn't announce any feelings. Instead, the poem simply reports what the people do: they ration their little store, drink more often because they're bored, and wait. That plainness is what makes the mood so strong. The short, unpunctuated lines feel flat and repetitive, much like the days themselves. There is isolation here, and a quiet restlessness, but also a kind of helpless patience.
The title adds a small irony. The bulletin is the only link to the outside world, and the only hope of change. Even so, it can only tell them about the weather, which they cannot alter. All they can do is listen and wait.