Black heavens, slate-cloud, chalky white billowed downs; winter hath come full on. Trees stand as winter soldiers, resolute, wind bristled, stark - saluting stars and moon. Twisters whip cones of icy fog. Birds, silenced, shivering, sallow, to bereft twigs do cling full mute. Aromas erased yet stars ablaze. Subzero temperatures tumble, precipitous, wild, until mercury freezes solid. 'Twas the coldest winter of all, cold right to marrow's core.

December 4, 2025.

 

A bonhomie of snowy-cloud chattered its cargo upon the sleepy country town. Snow fell. Bells rang. Hot chocolate steamed hot, marshmallow pillows bobbing a-top. Snow fell all the more. As a Celtic crown of ancient lore, plaited strands, swirls and more, all was coated most generously. Moonlight as a maternal hand soothed the shock of chilblained land. Hearth fires roared. Music elevated. Souls found the merriest season's salvation. Secluded sanctuary. Smiles as gentle fairies. Still, still the snow fell without mercy, without end.

December 4, 2025.

 

Winter’s Marshy Levels
Holding strong in wrought-iron tungsten-breeze,
Reed root-gelled banks of earthen bonds,
Such steadfast perma-fountain marshland seas,
Gusting lazy-loose vertical punk-wands,
With spikes of farrier-dust feathered ears,
Grave-cold in bonhomie ice-smoke smoulder,
Hues of shadow-shade mingle as salt-tears,
Caged tranquility as hand on shoulder,
Rain quivers fretful brackish sun-halos,
Bristling beneath a gap-tooth horizon,
Stems stealth-revealing new leaf-blade mellows,
Drinking deep draughts of cold brewed iron,
Millions-strong huddled-brush rustle nearer,
Ghost carp deep under poker-face mirror.
***
May 26, 2026.

Found in Sweet 'n' Salty Poems Collection One.

 

The road so black, so strong, beneath heaven's gaze supported the falling snow until it was quite erased. Though it shivered and shook, froze full through, it slumbered and dreamed of warm sunshine and times anew. Old man winter did bring such roads of white, such roads of ice and brittle air. Days will come. Days will go. Yet the cold, cold season doth bring robin's snow.

July 30, 2026.

 

The street in winter's icy grip, midnight cars reduced to snowy humps, shivered in the grim dank cold. Moonlight as buttermilk shone proud, unbowed by scattered storm cloud shrouds. Shadows grew with the sun, boundaries knife edge defined, twisted gargoyles of ages gone by. Above flew the birds of dawn, free in arctic rays, free in gusting frigid currents. 'Twas winter born as permafrost, as if it meant to defy other seasons at any cost. Come white days, come white nights, the street in winter's grip remained.

December 4, 2025.

 

Icy white daisies, brilliant in the dark, kitten fluffy-soft, are bequeathed in three-sixty from sweet heavens aloft. Down they parachute in the amiable air, as if millions of angels had dreamed them there. Upon the ground they alighted as a warm duvet. Forests stand as resolute snowy-angels. White fields support flakes that land as numerous as white-beach sands.

December 4, 2025.

 

Market stalls empty. Winter ice heart-attacks water pipes. Gas pipes carry only fresh air as grand oaks fell pylon wires. All was dark, dank, cowering in frigid misery. Wind moaned. Rubbish scuttle-sulked. Tyres deflated as car batteries died. Clouds sank lower in glower-growl as river scent dominated city air.

October 28, 2025.

 

Cool days, fresh clean air, a breath of snow in fogless swirl - winter arrived as a snow-bird song. Robins a-dance on perfect brown wands, daffodils a-sleeping under earthen duvet, clouds a dilly-dally wandering in sugar-blue - ‘twas a storybook day. Cars, buses and trucks did pass, future hopes rained as grains in an hour-glass. Hat hugged faces braced and bright entered dayshine with childish delight, mittens a-clapping, feet a-stomping, breath a-rising in cotton-candy puffs.

September 19, 2025.

 

Bleakest night laced itself with a frigid wind, a frigid wind threading intricate wire loops. Upon it was borne an impugning moan of curdling audacity. Cry! Cry! So it went on! Such a cruel limping immorality! As a faithful servant of winter’s seal the howl sublimated its passions, for a deft hand ‘twas it in creation of pretty snow and ice; so much delight did it bring. Yet on this most cold of days, ere nightfall was in full-flow, we fled down the cobbled street. We fled fleece-wrapped and sought sanctuary with faithful kith and kin.

May 14, 2025.

 

River nibbled the frost bitten field as the last mean straws did rot. Footfalls found no cushioning, yet a jolt of ice-baked land. No tear could fall into winter’s hand, so cold embattled was that site. The sun could rise to full power, ignite every hue to full-bright, and still it would go on in subzero grumble, still it would shun spring’s extended hand. Bitter, so bitter, was the field, and ne’er once did I figure out its sullen rationale.

April 12, 2025.

 

As preserving hand, came winter’s icy glove. A-sparkle in the dayshine, it coated field and forest same. Nature was content that day, to chill in the mischievous wind and to laugh into its mirth. Earth carolled her loamy scent into the cooling air. Rest! Rest! As a beloved mother, rest! Dream of roses; dream of lambs; dream your heart’s galore.

May 2, 2025.

 

The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.

March 23, 2025.

 

Frosted ground met freezing fog to banish tree and branch from sight. Oh, what a winter's day 'twas it! Beneath the boot did crackle the earth, puddled ice to glassy shards! Crack! Crack! Crack! On we trudged, our echoes a medley with wind's chorus-chimes. How the wayward twigs did snap at each numb cheek. Yet ahead we knew the hearth did roar and soup pot with ladle warmed. Onward! Onward! Trudge, trudge, trudge!

January 19, 2025.

 

Upon the hill brow that sweet morrow, frosted as it was, I saw a grin of white. Or perchance, I suppose, 'twas a frown. Either way, those pearly glimmers were whale-ish in all respects. So tiny! So many! So broad-a-beam!

January 19, 2025.

 

Upon the leaves of evergreens, radiating in fine plume, was a pillow of white. It was as if when winter came, mother nature had tucked each one in with the finest eider-down.

October 3, 2024.

 

To that white page of last night’s snow, no footsteps had yet to write a word. My smile grew wide as my internal hearth roared. It was mid-calf deep out there and only moon-quality strides would do. The frozen hills were hills no more, yet a playground wonderland. So before our fireside hearth, warm cocoa in hand, we planned a day of merriment.

October 3, 2024.

 

Winter comes as a hearth song bequeathed by black cradled stars.

December 21, 2021.

 

Winter arrives, an icy serenade, a coolness to bring out the warmth within.

September 7, 2020.

 

The winter sun brought out the purity of the heaven-given snow, as if were a blank page for our merriment, inviting the feet to play and the spirit to laugh.

April 4, 2020.

 

This winter I'm gonna win. Let the ice crackle underfoot, for it is nothing as compared to this warm heart and the fire burning within, that steady pilot flame. That's the thing about these tough times, the most loving win because we dig in, we get determined when the greedy cut and run. So, that winter wind with its toothy bite is nothing but excitement to me.

September 3, 2019.

 

The winter is such crystalline joy, those brilliant rays that show the uniqueness of every snowflake. It is the time of puddles that become transient skating rinks and for my thoughts to remain cozy within a woollen hat. It is the time when the sunniest of days are warm even in when I can see my breath rise as neat and pure vapour. It is the days of quiet poetry forming in my soul as if it calls to the spring flowers that will soon blossom.     

July 30, 2019.

 

The wintry sun is the brightness of the day, taking centre stage as the blooms of the summertime become a part of the soil. The sunshine and cold, the sparkle and the ice, somehow warm even when the north wind bites. There will be days I wish to stay in the warm, to observe from a duvet, fingers wrapped snuggly around some cocoa... yet some days the winter takes my hand and shows me its beauty, that in truth, it is but the dawn of spring.

January 12, 2019.

 

The river appears still, yet she flows under the thinnest of ice, awaiting the gentle touch of the sun. Though the air bears only the coldness and the ground is frozen once more, they glitter with the gift of each nascent ray. It is as if God ensured there would be hope even on the deepest and most wintry of days, asking us to see the sparks that remain even when the world is frozen. And so I choose not to see the blanket of ice but the waters that remain deep and moving, ever onward to join the ocean in its slow yet sure way.

December 17, 2018.

 

Wintry trees stand as ballet dancers poised to show the world their grace, strength showing in how they remain so still in the seasonal gusts. Now that the leaves have fallen, they are so proud, as if their silvery-brown skin was their glory all along. I lift my head into the wind, eyes open for this softly lit day. Cold is good if you are warm inside, just the same as we love ice in the summer time.

October 11, 2018.

 

Before the cold winds come to breathe our world anew, before snow makes our familiar streets a canvas for dreams, I see each sculpted flake with eyes at rest, the chaotic dance of billions uniting over the earth. These daydreams are my hearth-fire, bringing the hint of a newborn smile, one that lifts every part of what I am. I ask the icy wind to bring me to higher senses, to wake within that which rested in the easy summer days; for in these dreams are wintry puddles, silver-blue in the path, as if they were nascent moons born to shine. Then, as if I can contain this energy surge no-longer, I run... I run past trees with skin the hue of spring soil, through shadow and light just the same.    

June 23, 2018.

 

As the long summer days linger in our memories, nature rests her rainbow palette. In their place she brings out the colours of beach and woodland, soothing us into a quiet reflection. We walk through pictures shown so beautifully by the winter sun; each as bathed in love as the one before. Be it the blue of sea or sky, or every shade of brown from almost white to almost black, it brings a peaceful harmony. Yet in this choir of colours, mother nature keeps by a little green, a little red, for the holly tree, the evergreens and robins. And after this rest, this deep breath of cool fresh air, we are ready for the sweet mischief of spring.

April 16, 2018.

 

Under a dove grey sky the colours of my world don their winter coats, each hue darker and richer than before. The path sparkles and crunches, like sugar underfoot, and the coolness brings me right into the now, into the moment of life. Though the flowers sleep and the trees show their lofty arms once more, a smile plays upon these cold lips. For as much as I love the summertime, I love the winter too. For every perfume of the meadow, there is the earthy loam of the newly-lit forest floor.    

October 31, 2017.

 

There is a warmth that tumbles out in the winter time; when all else is so cold. It radiates from those who love and nurture as easily as they breathe. In truth, the sparks of warmth are always there no matter the season, just like a warm rock blends into a summer beach, yet melts winter ice.     

December 3, 2017.

 

The air is frozen lace on my skin, delicate and cold, like winter waves on sallow sand. The sky is washed with grey, watery light illuminating thin patches to brilliance. In some moments I am watching my boots over the frozen sidewalk, perfect concrete slabs, flat and square, and in others transfixed to the interplay of cloud and sun above. For some reason my mind conjures a stone mosaic made beautiful by the shards of a mirror and I want to keep my eyes heaven bound while my imagination makes them one thing. Only the slipping of my feet brings my attention earthward once more, the need to stay upright pulling my mind into the present.

November 22, 2016.

 

The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early fall, freezing and paling my skin on contact. The path through the park is muddy water in motion, filling deep puddles that hide the ruts of dryer weather. To feel it isn't enjoyment, not fun like the gentle sunshine of springtime, yet it is a part of life and I want to feel it just the same. I want to experience each drop, together and apart, same and different. I want to see the droplets soaking my eyelashes before they join their brethren on the ground like saltless tears. I need to be in this, chaotic and wild, just like my mind and soul - like nature looked right into me and pulled the weather out.

November 22, 2016.