Winter White Light
There’s a bright, white light over the horizon
And it’s stretched through the crabbed claw witch’s fingers
Of the leafless trees clutching at it, in the winter cold.
It’s harsh ground spilled with the cold, curled leaves from the twisted oak.
The clawing, grappling branches tortured by the cruel wind
Seem to stretch and grasp at the sky itself.
And this cold, white light penetrates the brain,
Screaming into the mind with the thought of winter.
The light appears surreal, like something from the underworld,
A cold, clammy light that has no part above the ground.
And yet, it is intense!
It’s pure and white and cold, the cruelty of winter.
All the shadows are dark in comparison,
The depths are so deep, their colours grey and black
As if the winter light has leeched all colour from the world.
Penelope Dumere © 2008