wetrarljóð

Winter

Winter crept
through the wisperingwood
hushing fir and oak
crushed each leaf and froze each web
but never a word he spoke.

Winter prowled
by the shivering sea
lifting sand and stone;
nipped each limpet silently -
and then moved on.

Winter raced
down the frozen stream,
catching at his breath;
on his lips were icicles
at his back was death.

eftir Judith Nicholls

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