As he walked on that crisp night
to anywhere he wished to dwell,
He breathed the stillness in the air
And on the frosted ground, snow fell.
Within an hour into the night
the scene had altered from before,
the crystal green of earlier
was whitened as the snow fell more.
Yet further through the night he trod,
His footprints shaped into the snow
in deeper placements as he walked
He wondered where the path would go.
And as the snow fell from above
freed from the sky, a frozen life,
The wind began to cut a ridge,
towards his face, sharp as a knife.
Though as he turned to hurry back
towards his home, there were no hints
of where, but moments earlier,
the snow had harboured his footprints.
So there, where just minutes before
the man had marvelled at the night.
His longing hope from there then was
for wind and snow to take respite.
Alas, though all that he could see
was snow fall swiftly from the sky
and confused, all that man then thought
was on that night he'd surely die.
But on the old man took his fight
for life, he cried against the gale
for help, though never was a cry
so hopeless in this winter's tale.
And soon the anguished pleading ceased,
and dying on the ground he lay,
while through the trees there stood his home
so close if he had known the way.
And through that night the snow fell on
and children played on the roadside
beside the old man's empty house
they couldn't know that he had died.
But sure enough, minutes away
from where those people played their time
A corpse wore his bland cloak of snow
that covered up a winter crime.
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