'White Flag'

Nine months rain,three months snow,

the frigid air, winds biting blow.

A fog of war, breath that hides ones gloom,

those drawn in days and darkened rooms.

The snow-line buttressed into sculptured drifts

that hold us bound,

by weight of fall, hermetic grasses to deep

to surge through solid ground.

we're put on ice, our lives on hold,

no draft deterred, the beds too cold.

Dear God! This farm, exposed and bare,

battered in a blizzard siege its  ordnance

the frozen air.

Assaulted roads, blockade of ice, 

an Arctic barricade, hostage to winters vise.

We wither and shake to bear the brunt,

captive of the battle-line, this polar front.

The shortest days and longest nights,

as power struggles, the current out,

extant in candlelight.

The wild things forced march in frigid lofts

blocked by solid spouts,

in search of spoils or hardships feast, aid

starvation's scouts

and grounded birds use wings to plough

through seas of squall, 

their breast like prow

to part the harshest snowy swell,

marooned in fields and sunk on fell.

The Evergreens, bleached and cloaked,

a Satin line of pregnant brides, the groom, SPRING,

his vows revoked.

The last gasp Birch that clings to banks

and bursting cracks,

hang solemn, the vigil stands with

fuel starved axe.

Cobwebs draped like sugared lace,

with pearls of frost adorned,

retreating spiders wrapped in silk,

its brittle net, quite scorned.

I'm minus ten and six foot deep,

no mirth in comfort food,

I'm fodder for the forecast

when snow and wind collude.

I'm mired deep, its 'white out',

no distant point to view,

I'd integrate my mindset,

if only snow were blue.

As these raw weeks, those days of storm

begin to lift their bind,

my melting mood, the Crocus head

and Snowdrops Spring defined.

At last the Norths retreating winds,

the winters cold supply.

The circle closed ....begin afresh,

when Lapwings fill the sky.