Pitch black with silver spider-webs of moonlight,
Pools of silver crystallised on the surface of the deep damp lake
The old wind rattles and races through the steep hilled valleys.
Nature lifts its ancient head breathing song into the birds,
Providing movement and sudden enthusiastic flight
Tiger skins of sunlight warm the frosty moors.
Life raises its weary body,
Tired from its battle to sift the chemicals from its land
It aches from its efforts to scarcely sustain fertility in its species.
Wounded from the jagged poles thrust into its crust,
Scalped of its vegetation, it seems tortured and humanised.
But there remains hope of the silent poet who sits
And seems static, but his mind is racing
Charged with grains of ideas which form springs of inspiration.
Feeling the warmth from the soil on this bitter-cold day
Connected through touch and sense, and spirit and mind,
Charged by the energy that runs through the blades of grass
Into his fingertips, he undertakes a vow to spread the words
“Eternally thankful” for such beauty.