Winter

The depth of winter hails the mournful song of the currawongs as they exchange a sorrowful lament with one another. The chilled evening air echoes with their call, causing a melancholy dirge to settle within the soul. The white tipped wings and grey streaks on their bodies are reminiscent of the ever present hoary that portrays Winters settlement across the landscape. His stout crop of hair, once satin, now, what is left are small prickles of grey. The lined, weather beaten face etched with a pallor of silver slate casts its gaze across the numb, frosty country. His eyes carry an intense, glassy glare as they scan the Western sky. Slivers of the setting sun attempt to penetrate the altostatus that enclose the land under the icy fist of winters rule. The man appears frozen, unable or unwilling to move, like a statue of a stoic savant or relic from ancient times. Winter, he has lived through many, with the march of time each Winter seems to compress the cold through to the marrow of his bones. He scans the sky, assiduously searching for a sign that Spring is on the march, ready to lift the frigid Winter mantle and dispense with the cold. For he knows that just as Yahweh has set the seasons, brighter days are on the horizon and without wishing time away he yearns for the warmth and comfort of brighter days ahead.