At last I've come across a light.
I drop my hood and let a sigh,
on such a black midwinter night,
drift out in to the frosted sky
then see it leave with heavy eyes.

Old boots have creaked with every step -
no night has felt so cold this year;
along the country lanes I've crept,
my breath and footsteps crisp and clear
have been the only sounds to hear.

It's now too late to travel back
to find my prints in clean white lace,
as flakes begin to hide my tracks -
the next man here will see no trace
to show this was my stopping place.

Through falling mist so frail and thin,
set high up on a distant hill,
dim lights shine from a cosy inn;
blithe drinkers there will have their fill
while I'm engulfed by bitter chill.

Soft, even fields, so thick and deep
lie just outside the lantern's glow.
They'll lure me to an icy sleep
if from the well-worn road I go,
as still they're piling up with snow.

I lift my bag to leave the light;
on hedgerows I will leave no mark
on this, the longest winter night -
with upturned collar I embark,
and move in to the waiting dark.