The gravel path has led me through the wood
where moonlight whispers down between the trees;
I tighten frosted scarf and snowy hood
as trickling woodland brooks begin to freeze.

No music left from any songbird throat;
there's no trace of the starling or the thrush.
Sharp, piercing wind comes lashing at my coat
while hawthorn hedges twist with blackthorn bush.

The oaks have rampant ivy taking hold as frigid breaths remain the only sound;
a screeching owl disturbs the silent cold
which brings the ice that coats the barren ground.

With sodden gloves I brush flakes from my sleeve,
and with a glance towards the sky, I leave.