With winter blanket falling deep
and crisp across the icy ground,
the road has brought me up a hill
and here a bridleway I've found.

I stop my horse; we turn and stare
down its black, winding thoroughfare.

Along the road lie village lights
that glitter in the midnight dark;
the hoof-prints now are veiled from view
as tumbling flakes conceal their marks.

The bridleway snakes round a bend
where looming mist tonight descends.

The road shows me the flowing hills
and valleys, hushed, all painted white;
this road leads forth to restful fires -
the bridleway to frozen night.

Untouched, its path is thick with snow
enshrouded from the moon's dim glow.

Far up its silent track, I glimpse
a farmer's fragile, wooden fence
and stile between the field and trail
in bramble hedges, high and dense.

Dismounting steed, to gaze and stand,
I hold the reins in frosted hand.

The soughing wind - the only sound -
then groans across the farmer's gate;
the trees and thickets, draped in snow,
are bowing with their winter weight.

I leave the road, towards the track;
my horse though tightens up the slack,
and reins in frosted hand pull back.