Snowdrops

Forlorn trees stand
cold and alone,
their long dark fingers
stripped of green summer gloves
reaching out towards
a steely grey sky
searching out the warmth
of a long-forgotten sun
they cannot find.

The snow will come soon.
At first, in its
virgin white form,
lessening the harshness
of the bleak, moorish landscape.
But, as it thaws,
the bleakness returns;
broken only by all too occasional
glorious sunsets.


And so this is winter.
This is all there is
Until brief days
grow steadily longer.
And brave snowdrops
first dare to raise
their fragile heads,
hoping, at long last,
That Spring has come.