The Hills of Home

The winter sends its warning for the months that lie in store,
Within the chilling blanket of white mist that haunts the moor.
Biding time it stalks the coast and settles across the bay,
Born within the womb of fall in swirling clouds of grey.

Beneath a veil of satin snow the savage winter hides,
Poised to strike with claws of ice and diamonds in its eyes.
Horizons fall a victim of its cold and bitter stare,
Wounded by the scars that late December brings to bear.

Until softly whispered promises of warmer days to come,
Are melted into teardrops, upon the hills of home,
Like eagles high, it soars on by, a last defiant breath,
When blossoms bring a brand new spring, rejoicing in its death.