The sun stands still within uncertain skies:
across the woods, and in the fields below,
old earth is swallowed up by trackless snow,
a barn owl circles, slowly on the rise.
There in the trees, the frost calls to the wise:
it tells of shadowed paths marked by the crow,
where we have deep and many miles to go,
to find our sleep before the fire dies.
Our sleep, in which we dream of bright spring days,
of walking through green meadows hand in hand,
as flowers blossom in a wild blaze
that drives the bitter reaper from the land.
But dreams are dreams, and winter still holds thrall,
while fire keeps its guard over us all.
Russell J Turner