Winter’s Warlock Poem by C Richard Miles

Suspended on spun strings of finest spider-silk,
Across the misty meadow, by the reed-edged pond,
Are silver pearl-drops scattered, shining bright as milk,
Where winter’s wicked warlock waves a whitening wand.

His breath speaks ghostly grey across the morning air
To where chilled cattle whisper to the silent sky
Whilst browsing stiffening grassblades, or just stand and stare
And steam pale puffs of exhalation in reply.

Dawn’s dewdrops turn to diamonds through his practised art
To sparkle in soft sunlight on the pasture’s plain
Soon the sorcerer will deign to make a start
To harden into jewelled hail, the autumn rain.

This chill magician coldly turns once-rippling mere
To polished stainless steel of mirrored glass-like grace
So he may stoop and preen himself and grimly peer
To see the stark reflection of his hoar-hazed face.

Assured, he will return to cast his ermine cloak
Upon the hilltops gazing on the ice-bound scene
To paint all ashen-white each sycamore and oak
And palm away all colour, steal the moorside’s green.

But though this frosty wizard works his ire and will
Upon our countryside, grasped in his death-cold throes,
He is benignly smiling, as he plies his icy skill,
At nature, as she sleeps so snug beneath his snows.

For it is only he that has the wit and guile
To recognize than she deserves a well-earned rest
To summon up new strength beneath his chilling smile
And re-awake in spring to give her very best.