Again I felt this urge again. I had to get out, out into a world where things are just what they are. Where a fact is a fact and Amsterdam is not the capital of Berlin. Where there is no peace, sure, but certainly no war, and lunacy dies a sorry death. For a rabid fox or racoon will die, ultimately.
There is frost, and the trees are still and breathe but slowly. It is a hard time for birds and deer and fox and hare, for racoon and rabbit. Frost rides heavily and reigns like death. And yet, its crystals reflect the light, ever so fragile, and the darkest night has just passed, and the days get longer.
At the trailhead I met a deer. It just passed by ever so slowly. Another, passing from the dale, shied and sprinted away, clouds of snow trailing up from its flight. There was a simple beauty to both behaviours, a power in the stride and the flight of both of them, and it conveyed a deep meaning to me-but it would be futile to try to describe it.
The forest lay dark and still and adorned with the jewellish twinkle of crystal beauty. The wind bit hard down on my face, and still I coveted its touch.
Words get frozen in a poet´s mouth. Words become crystals that fall and shatter with a sound, twinkling ever so faintly, and yet ringing like a roar in my weary mind.
...
On I walked, to the top of a hill, entwined in a crystal cobweb´s dream... a song in my heart, faint yet strong.
There are no answers given in the twilight, and no respite from the lunacy and rabies that has befallen man. But frost has come and frost will go.
And tracks afield run from thicket to thicket and tell me the runes of the forest.
To the hilltop. To a hawthorn in ornate needles and thorns of winter. Do not sleep under the hawthorne tree, they say, or you will never be the same again. And I laugh. I laugh at their fears and their want. For I DID sleep under the hawthorn tree, under a new moon, a sickle of silver.
I laugh at their plight and their wars. My heart is armed with thorns and swords of frost and tongues of fire. I unbecame human long time ago.
Welcome to the realm of frost and twilight. Welcome, ye wicked, to the treacherous trails of winter...
Where your worst nightmares dwell.
