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Snow drifts down
laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
The snow falls,
falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
all is still,
nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
dreaming,
of being kissed by the Sun.
© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
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