In silent stance the ice holds still,
Branches stilled;
Spiked shards fringe each bough
in pearlescent white;
Stiff snow cloaks mounds of earth,
Each bearing tiny crested peaks
and troughs defined by rivulets of soil;
There’s a crunch beneath one’s feet:
A footprint left,
Of others too;
Angular crossings over the land-
Journeys made visible
For all to see;
A scent pervades in the the stillness of air;
Drawing everything to winter’s vice.
Ruth Partridge 