Years ago, one of my university lecturers told me that he didn't really read much that he enjoyed anymore - I suspect he'd been marking one of my essays - but there was a line of poetry he had read the other day that he thought was phenomenal. He then said it out loud, and what I remember him saying was just part of a sentence, just this:
"In winter, when the wolves have nothing to eat but wind..."
I have not been able to track this line down since, so I've almost certainly gotten it wrong. What I will never forget, though, was the way he stressed those three main W words that give the thought its shape and force. Winter, wolves, wind. Each of these was pained, almost: bleached and pummeled tight by the ferocity of the cold as they left his mouth. I was transported by the impromptu performance. I still am. Thank you, Jan.