the early ice

A crunching in the early ice, 
In boots still wet from yesterday; 
The day to come, the weeks to go, 
The task at hand the only way 

To shut out all the nightmares now. 
How can you tell what can't be said, 
Or paint with white upon the snow 
The dark you fear is just 


Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

Leave a Reply