|
Storm is coming
Winds are in the East
Two Hundred miles
Of open water
On which it can
Well feast.
The sky is sullen
Grey, foreboding,
Blending with the Lake
The Horses soon
Will gallop, but
For now they trot
This way. Tis
Almost graveyard quiet
The calm comes
Always first.
This morn the sky
Was Red as blood, a sign
That sailors curse.
Before this day is o'er
The clouds will
Void their sleet
And the wind
Will howl in anger
Rearing the Stallions high.
Their manes, the spray
Will crash as ice
Against the shore
And quay, but
Leave behind a
Crystal World that
Is a joy to see.
|
Winter Gale
