The barren trees quiver
– and shiver – as the cold wakes.
The sky jolts to life.
A thunderous bolt of charged ice-crystals
Fall at the whim of the forces of nature
To the earth. The gale of old
Arises from slumber once more,
Stirring despair and resistance
Amongst the people, as it howls,
Howls, and screams, bound in chains
It never wanted.
A pounding wind stirs a chalice
With the poison’d pattern’d flakes,
As crystals turn shards, turn daggers,
Torrential torture pouring from above.
The cries of the people have, at last,
Been heard. One more ancient awakens,
Called forth by the grandmaster Time.
Still death calls. But the life that courses through,
And empowers, this force, is stronger.
It struggles as the stok’d ember spark’d
In a wintr’y, befall’n furnace.
The battleground awaits, solemn, grave,
As the cold stones arranged in the churchyard,
Awaiting, at last, the power play,
The cold, brazen’d, glaring skull, gnawing
At this old enemy, with thickened husk and bark
Navy and olive entwined around and around,
Fortifying and strengthening.
Quickly, the cold lashes, a biting wind
Which beats mercilessly on an aged,
But not weak, hide, of a greened tree.
Leaves, the pollen of a determined will,
Take root in the heart of the branches,
Though ice encrusts and crushes,
Destroys and starves.
Soon, the crown will into full bloom burst
– and explode – as the morning wakes.
The earth will jump to life.
An immersed wave of greened pigment
Strikes, and spreads, and ovewhelms,
From tree to tree. The heat of day
Casts the shadow of a bygone season away,
Providing the current of a systemic energy,
Revitalising, rejuvenating, reviving,
Reviving what was within the ember,