Saturday, January 30, 2010

Waves of Snow

Was it sand? Or was it snow?
Spindly lines that daily grow
Out in waves of blue and white
Vanishing upon our sight.
Was it sand? Or was it snow?
Hills and vales that flip and flow
Like the undulating hand of seas
Lost in hissing, crystal breeze.
Was it sand? Or was it snow?
Man will never guess, or know
Staring out across the space
Of the blank, uncharted place.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Allegorical Winter and Spring

Life is spring to those who love it,
To those who coddle life, and show it:
Life, to them, is petaled roses
And bits of fresh, ephemeral proses.
Although each day may pass---though brief---
They cherish soft, unfurling leaves
And winds that pass with gentle sighs
And love that never wilts or dies.
Life to those who hate, is winter
'Tis death to that engaging sinner
And darkness, filled with lakes of frost
The tidal foam, the withered moss.
In every hour, minute, day
The thought is only wrapped on pain
Despair is deep, like snowy vales
That perish in the streaking hails.
To those who love, and loving, live
'Tis spring, a time to serve and give:
To those who hate, and hating, kill
'Tis winter, breaking heart and will.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Ice Universe

Frail branches pierce the silent sky
The sun is dipped in silver dye
The moon looks like a frozen plate
And shivers down on country gates.
The stars are hid in hoary capes
Like glass, their splintered, gleaming shapes
Are paused upon the glitt'ring eye
Of lakes in dead, unflowing rye.
A puff of ice, a twirl of cloud
Are equably caught in the shroud
Of sky and stars and frozen moon
That spread across the winter gloom.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Winter Wood

A hush falls on the frozen woods,
A silence, like the trees have paused
And left a million souls of flakes
Behind them, in a gleaming wake.
A velvet cast of white is laid;
Upon the snow, a foot betrays
Where creatures roam through glen and gloom
Amongst the twilight's silver loom.
Sweet notes rise through the trilling throat
Of Blackbird, haunted by the Stoat
That hunts among the stooping leaves
And creeps past swirling, icy streams.
When dawn has come again, the thorn
Is splintered with the rising morn
And brush, and bracket, bend again
To hushed white woods, and huddled wrens.