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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Bitter Bite of Night! Night creeps in sotto voce melding with the mellowing village life. Night, a seemingly mischievous cat, slips along incognito in its prankish mood, teasing any light that tries to define her. Night now casts darkness into distant corners, lassos slumbering, innocent buildings; trick roping them with thinly, stretched shadows until, from above, an inquisitive watery beam reaches down, searching out this inky intruder; a cold chuckle, a harsh response and a claw-shaped moon is chased from the sky. But feline Night is not what… or who she seems! For this Night… is dark in dishonesty, is deep rooted in deceitfulness, as suddenly she transforms from… playful to heartless and ruthlessly turns on all around her swallowing greedily, chewing speedily until nothing remains…. as it was. Homely houses, strolling streets, loitering lanes are veiled in darkness, smudged into obscurity, until Night draws her black curtains – light-tight, then elbows of hills and fingers of trees disappear, stolen away by this dark demoness! Night, in time, flows out through the village leaving behind an unwanted guest - the old man of winter - Jack Frost! He crunches in with a harsh discipline, refrigerating glances, icicled hands and teeth, to set about his task of winterizing the village. Later, when Night has removed her ebony cape, morning nervously and tentatively edges in, gradually leaking light all around to unveil… winter’s work…..the bitter bite of night where: Frigid, rigid trees with frozen arms cling to the side of frosted, dusted hills, plants lie glacially in a line, lifeless as if struck down during a futile escape then, in contrast, the beauty of a spider’s web necklaced across a frozen, floating fence. But now morning has a sharp edged voice as footsteps snap, crack and crunch while a car shouts its way into the distance, winter biting and snapping at its heels (or wheels), until suddenly it begins gasping with anxiety gradually slide-gliding its way to a lasting halt. There it sits exhausted; struggling for breath while spluttering grey ghosts into the ether. Winter poetry has written itself harshly across a hardened countryside, scratching, scribbling and scrawling itself into every iced corner; winter graffiti at its cold-hearted, bitter best! Ian Souter
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