Night Storm
The cold winter’s blast funnels down the steep valley, spiked crystals, ice-white in the night, herald snow. In bleak misty swirls, low…
The cold winter’s blast funnels down the steep valley,
spiked crystals, ice-white in the night, herald snow.
In bleak misty swirls, low cloud, all pervasive,
masks shafts of dim moonlight’s ethereal glow.
Spiked gorse with stark fingers outlined in the dark,
stand ghostly, immobile, despite the harsh wind.
And tall mountain ashes, complete with white sashes,
brace their boughs, without leaves, looking sadly bare-skinned.
The howling gale shrieks, the snow falls in flurries
the red squirrel stirs in the depth of its drey.
While sheep stand, like spectres, white portents of doom,
the horizon, lit dimly, frets sombre and grey.
As night, in her black shirt, begins to retreat,
the weather relents and clouds all blow by.
Daylight tiptoes in as if fearful and coy,
rays filtering through from a fast clearing sky.
By morning the storm has exhausted her venom.
The sun, pouting slightly, peeks out in disdain
at the havoc cruel winter has wreaked on the hill
How quickly though, Nature restores peace again