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Midwinter Contrast MAG
Whips of cutting cold
criss-cross my frozen nose.
Hood up, eyes squinting
I plod on against Mother Nature’s
coldhearted will.
Flakes land softly,
blanketing the dead grass of midwinter
with a pristine coat of blank page.
A single figure mars this expanse of icy white,
an ink blot on a page filled with nothing
but empty ideas.
Tracks steadily stir the surface of silence,
crunches creating cavernous canyon cracks
across a canvas of purity.
Rooftops, trees and chimneys
all dress in white for the occasion.
All bear silent witness
to the wedding of stillness and earth.
Standing straight and solemn
rigid ranks of pine
watch this lonely black figure,
with a coat dark as the deepest winter night sky
heavenly bright snow being
the perfect frame of violent contrast.
It is obvious I am no
welcome guest
for every step
I must fight 100 battles
against soldiers of snow and frozen gusts.
Swords with blades of ice assault my eyes, nose
and frostbitten fingertips,
no worse day to forget a pair of gloves.
The cold brings pain,
casting my defeated figure to the snow,
cradling close claws of hands frozen in place
by Gaia’s ill will.
I fight to my feet,
for every step foreward
is one towards home and hearth,
where the warmth of a decade of summers
awaits in hot chocolate and the arms of family.
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Rage, rage against the dying of the light. ~Dylan Thomas