Northern wastes, where white, as forever fields
hold the cold sun captive in ice shackles.
An old, lone wolf growls—raising its hackles
as gusts swoop down to gather; white death they wield.
Howling…scouring, it shall never yield
to the whims of man, frigid blast tackles
till all that’s seen in blindness—frost sparkles.
Silent, blinding tomb—storm erected shield.
Hunker down, ride it out…your life depends
upon the warmth within the offered shroud;
shared heat that flows, through the touch of a hand.
When all is said and done, the madness ends.
The sun returning, banishes the clouds
leaving not a sign that death stalked the land.
© February 24, 2011 CRF
This is a sonnet I wrote for a challenge at Alabaster and Mercury. The challenge was to write a sonnet utilizing one of three lines. The line I chose was “where white as forever fields hold the cold sun.”