The icy wind ferociously cracks her whip,
As she looks on with disdain
At tall trees flailing about to an unknown hypnotic song.
The gnarly grip of the sun
Desperately tries to reach out…with weak rays.
A faint whisper of encouragement hangs in the air.
I lean my stout body in an effort
To close the old wooden panelled gate,
But a sudden gust shows resistance.
The gate is finally closed.
The weary sun will soon retire,
Only to return on the morrow to compete.
But under the cover of darkness
Doors will rattle and unidentified shadows will dance,
As the icy wind exacts bitter, cold, revenge.