A line of naked oaks looms tall upon the hill;
guardian angels standing firm, astride the line of sky,
a shield from fear perhaps or maybe simply dread.
What lies beyond? A deadened, hardened earth
a solemn chill, so cruelly unforgiving.
What lies beneath? No hope of birth or any form of
life among the depths and woes of winter
which only brings a universal heartfelt need for rest.
But all the while some words I hear are racing through my head,
a kind of waking through an optimistic prayer, a solace to my soul.
Do words of hope have such a life and such a strength of voice
whether dancing through my dreams or simply written through my heart?
While I step through sheeptracks, moss and river stones
muffled, wrapped up well, towards my home below the hill,
I stride more surely through the cold and sodden turf.
The winter words still speak through me of hope;
I trust they will not fade,
as newly heard each day, they make me strong
and keep me singing wildly through the snow.