STILL
Still is the air, nothing at all stirs,
Cold grips the world in icy fingers,
Everything stark in winter’s death,
It seems nothing living takes a breath.

Everything you touch is colder than stone,
The leafless trees in pain seem to moan,
The only sound the crunch of footfalls,
Frozen silent are the birds cheerful calls.

Chilled lakes, streams no longer able to flow,
Everywhere is buried in pure crystal snow.
Then from the north the wind does awake,
Stillness departs and earth pained noises make.

I remember now as I sit in a much warmer place,
Although winter will come it is shorter, easy to face,
Not seven bitter months of deary cold to endure,
Snow for Christmas is all I want that’s for sure.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson October 2, 2002