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Falling, swirling, wild, mad droplets
crystallised to whitened shadows,
eerie phantoms of the heavens
rushing down to earthly shallows
from the mountains and above,
out of hanging, darkening pallor,
dashing here and there, uncertain,
hunting, creeping, seeking valour;

nestling deep in iron furrows,
clinging lightly to barren trees,
drifting o’er the rabbit’s warren,
singing slowly on the breeze,
softly sprinkling on the roadside
crisp diadems of Winter’s cold,
dazzling motors in their headlamps
and freezing youth from young to old.

Virgin whiteness of the meadow
becomes the old year’s wedding gown
to join in matrimonial joy
the new one to, whose coming crown
of glory in the Summer blaze
is so remote and distant gleam
that to imagine would contrast
a nightmare and erotic dream.

Gritty roads and slushy pavements
are aided by the human race
the silent whiteness to repulse,
yet in the morn’ there is no trace
of man made track or enterprise
to contemplate or demonstrate
that nature’s futile war is lost
and human works alone are great.

And so the world of man must stop,
awaiting once more nature’s voice
to call an end to Winter’s night;
giving the World once more a choice
between the mad rush to its death -
disease, starvation and bullets -
and whitened shadows, crystallised,
falling, swirling, wild, mad droplets.