The Snow Of The North Poem by Twilight Whispers

One day, we will go on a real adventure all on our own.
We will set off, our blondey-caramel curls and locks blowing freely
in the wind, our boots sturdily upon our feet...
the essence of the adventure alive in our eyes.
Arm in arm we'll walk down country lanes and Farmer's tracks,
through fields and flowers and clambering over stiles on the way,
picking the occassional sweetly innocent blackberry from the
hedgerows as we go, giggling at our purple teeth and tongues.
We'll sit down for a while under the biggest oak tree on the top of the
tallest hill on our favourite checkered picnic blanket and just lie there
for a while, happily watching the shapes in the clouds floating by and
spotting beautiful fluffy works of art in the rolling, tumbling turmoils of the sky.
We'll run down the hill like we'd never ran before, our arms waving
crazily by our sides and the sound of our glorious laughter ringing out
for all the birds and the grasshoppers and the rabbits and the horses
to hear...
and we'll trip and fall over a little daisy chain someone had placed a
few days earlier on a tree stump on the ground.
In a bundling heap of nice-smelling hair and perfume and naive, young giggles,
we'll sit up and straighten each other out again, brushing the air shyly
from one another's eyes.
We'll notice the daisy chain and how, whilst some petals are falling off and dieing,
other ones are as white as the snow we longed to feel landing softly
upon our eyelashes: the snow we had dreamed of falling from our
clouds ever since we'd had a group hug with our friends at the bottom of the hill, in the park with the swings, contentedly hugging in the
Snow of the North on our big adventure not so long ago.

And eventually we will realise that, although the snow isn't falling from our sky in our lives, it doesn't mean that it isn't falling in another sky during someone else's days.
We'll realise that, whilst the snow is falling in the North,
it is also falling in our hearts and that whilst it is quite cold,
it's natural pure brilliance and indefinite beauty will remain in the
bottom of our hearts and at the forefront of our memory forever and
ever and ever, until the birds stop singing and the rain stops falling,
until the bells stop ringing and the prayers keep calling; until the
roudabout stops spinning and the windmill stops a-turning, 'til our
friendship is torn and broken and our hearts are left a-yearning...they
will be in our hearts with us, warm and cosy and safe, until world stops turning