Midwinter (Poetry)

The North wind in the chimney howls —
its shrill voice summons dread.
The sleepless shiver at the sound
scant comfort found abed
listening to that growl and whine —
cruel weather’s tuneless song
each chorus tells a chilling tale
of winter — bleak and long ...

The wind brings ice from Arctic climes
to needle midnight’s gale.
Half-rain, half-sleet against the glass
it raps above the wail
and punishes those stalwart pines
who brace to take the blast
while sheltering small feathered souls
until the storm is past.

The building confident in brick
still shudders from each gust —
the force of air slams like a tide
the walls absorb each thrust.
Draughts find the narrowest of cracks
to slide and whistle through —
under doors they lisp and moan
a creaky threat or two.

The North wind screeches like a ghost
and rattles round and round.
It picks at roof tiles, loosens slates
and hurls them to the ground.
It plays the vandal dressed in black
rips peace and quiet to shreds
but by the dawn that rage is gone —
sky-wounds drip golds and reds ...

The wind has died to a soft sigh
an echo stirs the trees
who move like dreamers leant upon
by a sedated breeze.
Dark acts of fury evidenced
where fallen branches lay
while those survivors drink the calm
and live another day.