…Can you hear it, can you hear it screaming? Oppressive, with shafts of madness, burning white. It holds bolts of hailstorms; unleashes ice, surgical blades, beyond belief and darkens wings of all angels… It holds hostage our precious sun, and will not beg for redemption.



Filed under 60N, Arcania, geopoetics, poetry, spirit, white, wind, winter

4 responses to “pictorial

  1. Other than the incensed air of wood fires inlaced with the smoke of turf from the hearths of Erin. I hear no sound, nor sight of the icy gale that re-carves your island with it's might.

  2. Could be the start of a following stanza, Sir Heron. Love crossing the ocean & the Irish sea!Thank you for your contribution 🙂

  3. Not for publication.Dear Nat,I too have now written about a recent storm you will need to pay a visit tohttp://wordsofaramblingmind.blogspot.com/Regards, Mel

  4. Nice one, dear friend :-)The "Big Sky" remains a constant source of inspiration :-))

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