Winter Train

In the warm cocoon, the hum of the heater, and the rhythms of the track.

Winter, cold past the window flys;

A mantle of white girdles the ground;

The ephemeral mist, a deathly shroud hangs.

Weak, low, and laboured the winter sun its daily chore begins,

Sweeping the half light, teasing at life with the lightest of touch.

Alone the stoic pony stands;

Motionless dreaming of Summer, in clouds of breath;

Waiting, waiting, waiting whilst all around is still.