In winter, you are a naked beast

that makes the imagination run

and tumble, no matter the age.

This exposure as the first drifts

of snow stand fast against your body,

parting the branch and making the harsh light

of the torch explode and reflect

upon this desolate season, a monster hiding in the shadows,

ready to reach out, twigged gnarled fingers

groping in the dark and bitter air,

catching the passer by with surprise

as the light dies early in December’s grasp.

Yet this beast, of old Nordic tales,

of medieval landscapes and forests

deep and black, of nursery scares and rhymes,

grows garlands in late spring

and all is forgiven,

for a while,

and the beauty that drops gently

to the welcoming pavement beneath

is enough to put the dread

of winter to the axe.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018