Winter Ghost

The snowflakes fall, each one unique and alone, covering the Earth like returning souls to mark this winter day. Quietly I watch Nature perform Her trick of purity and grace, grateful for my solitude, communing with my soul. The flakes become small, like dust motes in an old room with sheets thrown over furniture and the curtains drawn tightly shut. I watch the snow fall and tempted, I venture out; wind stirs branches in the park and I crunch the soft snow underfoot as a dog would crunch on a bone. My footprints leave a mark and I tread backwards, retracing my steps to the back door, pondering as I retreat the ying-yang of snow nestling on the top of a black wheelie-bin. From an upstairs window I look at the ghost of the park, covered in white winter's shroud, the park is empty, devoid of life's bustle. Downstairs I watch steam rise from a kettle and take it outside to pour over dead covered leaves, the evaporation is instant, steam rises from snow: I marvel at the incongruous sight and step back inside, Satisfied with my experiment and my silent, pale visitor.