A blanket of silence, white and still,
Covers the wintry lake,
No hint of warmth wrapped within.
Shadows, like unsheathed sabres
Lying abandoned, link islands to shore.
Assuming a stern military stance,
Hills in rigid, glacial rows
Glare icily at darkly etched maples,
Bowing to a frigid breeze’s whim.
An occasional capricious snowflake
Drifts up, down and around,
A sly reminder of our vulnerability
To all of the Iceman’s vagaries.

Eleanor Kidd, Port Sydney

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