Winter King

Dec 24th, 2014 | By | Category: Articles, Lorna Smithers, Poetry

By Lorna Smithers

you take me back to what is raw,

glacial plains of horror,

the obnoxious beauty of it all

 

to beyond the ice age

when millennia ago we met

when the universe drew breath,

 

when the binding song coalesced.

You came as cold wind

and your inspiration was death.

 

You are the muse that moves the forest,

the ice that strips the hills,

the hunt that runs without flesh or bone

 

by the force of its boreal will.

Your voice is the chill that keeps me alive,

the poem that sparkles when all else dies.

 

When frost rimes my window I cannot forget

you were there at my beginning

and will greet me again at the end.

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