Winter shakes his robes of white
And storms around the stage,
As Spring waits calmly in the wings,
Observing Winter's rage.
The skies, like lead, are heavy now,
And not about to lift.
For Winter's tale is far from told,
As snow begins to drift.
Traffic struggles on the streets,
And wise men stay at home.
Winter paints his canvas bold,
In shades of monochrome.
With icy hand, he strikes the lake,
And bids the waves, "Be still!"
As Spring can only watch and wait,
With time left yet to kill.
Copyright © Robert Haigh 2016