Poem of Winter

This scene could begin in many ways;
It could open with a character, or a sunset of purple and pink clouds like flowers;
But rightfully this scene can only begin with the golden evening hours.

Fall crowds the land like a moth to a lamp, and on this particular drear grey eve,
though it had been a dry summer, the ground was rather damp.

It already had been a cloudy day, dark as would suffice, and after a hearty supper, you decide, an evening walk would be rather nice.

You put on your boots and you grab your hat,
and you’ll need an umbrella, so you also nab that.

The muddy path before your walking feet had led,
And you are surrounded by the evening mist, hiding the path ahead.

The mud under your feet squelches,
and when you lift your boots the ground belches.

You continue to wander, with your supper at adjourn,
When suddenly you think, you must have taken a wrong turn.

The countryside is hidden behind a veil so foggy,
and in your boots your socks have begun to get uncomfortably soggy.

The air seems fresher, you think, like breathing in water when ones throat is dry.
And the mist seems to lift around you, revealing a settlement close by.

The houses are built of wood, ridged to the touch;
All different sizes and colours, brown, red, white and such.

There is a rushing and a bustling in the distance, and a scurry of sorts,
These are the Village Folk, always busy, always queer;
And as you get near, they disappear.

Always busy are they, preparing and running,
Because the Winter was coming.

The village takes the seasons quite seriously here.
Decorating every single year.

In the spring, they decorate with blossoms and seeds,
And in the summer they have lots of green and shade from the sun;
in the fall the village is full of red, yellow and brown.
In the winter they cover their homes with a blanket of white;
Yes, the village was always a beautiful sight.

The Village Folk are always busy here, you see-
So unnecessary visitors that come are considered distractions, all would agree.

Trudging along you come, a visitor here,
and the Village Folk look to see, turning their ear;
then they scurry to hide, running off inside.

The visitor stomps on, on through the path,
And onto the ground, you stomp with what seems all your wrath.

But as the sound of your steps grow far away,
and had you stayed behind,
you’d find,
the Village Folk continue on their way, working on their display.

Suddenly, the breeze grows and the clouds blow down with all their might,
And they gave the whole Village a very big fright.
The wind grows to a mighty gust, taking aloft the entire village’s roofs far into the sky;
almost stealing your hat with it, though it surely did try.

The Village Folk run and scurry, into their homes they hurry.
But as the wind slows, with one last sigh, a tiny flake comes flying by,
down from the sky.
It lands tickling on the tip of your nose, melting at your skin,
and you pause and look up, with a happy grin.

The snowflake is joined by more, all flying, gliding, crystals of ice, and as you scurry home,
the land is covered in snow, all flat and nice.

In the morning you’ll find, the neighbourhood covered in a blanket so grand,
piled up and spread right over the land.

Winter has come, snowflakes, hot chocolate, and happiness it does bring;
and the village goes to sleep, awaiting to awake in the spring.