A storm descends upon Iceland, a howling beast unleashed. Roaring winds claw at the land, ancient stones tremble. Blustering fury whips across the frozen plains, a white whirlwind. Tempestuous waves crash against the cliffs, a raging titan's fist. A squall carries whispers of Jötunheimr, the giants' frozen realm. The blast of winter's breath chills to the bone, a frost giant's sigh. Gale-force winds tear through valleys, a chorus of the ******. The sea roils, a cauldron of wrath, stirred by unseen hands. Where the land ends, the ocean begins, a battleground of elements. Jagged lightning splits the sky, a god's angry eye. Frost-covered trees groan beneath the weight, their branches like skeletal arms. The raw power of nature is unleashed, a spectacle of destruction. Wrath pours forth from the heavens, a torrent of icy daggers. In this winter's grip, time falters, caught in the storm's embrace. One strains to hear the echoes of Odin's voice in the wind's howl. The spirits of old stir, awakened by the tempest's fury.
Snowflakes dance a frenzied jig, weaving patterns on the frozen air. The mountains bow before the storm's might, humbled giants. Icicles hang like the teeth of a monstrous beast, ready to strike. Each raindrop a tear shed by the sky, a lament for the land. The world is shrouded in white, a canvas of chaos and despair. In the heart of the storm, whispers linger, tales of forgotten ages. Memories of warmth fade, like embers in the face of the blizzard. Yet, even in this chaos, a fierce beauty resides, a primal strength. The light of resilience flickers in distant homes, a beacon in the dark. Tales of giants and gods are shared, binding hearts against the storm. The warmth of the hearth beckons, a refuge from the raging world. Those who brave the tempest wait, their spirits unbroken.
For storms, like the gods themselves, are bound by time. The darkest night yields to the dawn's gentle kiss. Silence returns to the ravaged coast, a fragile peace descends. The wrath subsides, spent, leaving behind a quiet strength. Nature breathes a sigh, a slow release from winter's grip. The old gods watch from Asgard, their wisdom etched in stone. For all storms, however fierce, must eventually pass. Echoes remain, reminders of the power that sleeps within. The world turns once more, beneath a sky that knows both fury and calm. The land remembers, the storm's mark etched into its soul. From the heart of winter, The Howling of Giants echoes still.
From my lesson in Picadilly's Write the Poem
Ok this was supposed to be a poem about a storm.... however, it turned into something else.
