Dead is the sky above the frozen ridge,
And icy as the hand of death the breeze;
Drawn on the chilly peaks the clouds
Are shredded like grey mouldering shrouds;
In Hela’s cold grasp spans the ancient bridge,
As horror- stricken wretches stare the trees.
Callously, cruelly drips the late sharp light
Soaking the snow in patches livid, green;
Out of the rigid west, sapped pale of hue,
Where jagged rents allow it to well through;
Stiff, stark, the land awaits the night,
The covering night with her compassionate screen.
The air is dank, in nostrils stagnant moves,
Charged with mortality, life-taking breath;
Deep hidden are they in undiscovered mines,
What some can find, of God’s great love the signs;
Not Nature here can show the God who loves;
Not signs like these the God who conquers death!
Weekly Times 15.12.61