The winter which came in like a lamb

Was about as mild as such a season can

Be - as most of this past one has been 

As uneven as pebbles. and has seemed

More akin to waning days of a summer

Thus sensed by the rhythm of a drummer

Who has played so to the beat of the past

His endless patter thus has wound up last



For musical passages which have bridged

Us with paths along which we have hid

Have now played their anthems at games

Which often have at times made us lame

For we've surveyed the scene with splash 

Of excitement felt, as we did so dash

In and out around corners, as we passed

Amongst others who well may have trashed



Scenes we have enjoyed in times long ago

Before this present current of windy snow

Which has so played havoc with our style

Our pointed objectives have been piled

Up in heaps upon which will gather moss

As schedules which were before, are tossed

And the directive upon which we so focused

Has - quite simply - lost its boast as



Blankets of white drifts have stalled

All efforts to become better oiled

And we redirect energies to other fields

Some which have missed our touch, peeled

By cold, ... frozen masses of good will

Which have beckoned in paths which still

Provide us with connections as they make

Their endless noises in ruts which shake



The ground whose form gives us support

As we try to seek those who do purport

To be at one with our good intentions

As they then provide some with mention

Who then haste to find our simple abode

In whose lair we ply our ware and trade

Off the beauty we have captured in prose

Which resembles classics of long ago



Whose continued involvement now provides

Sounds of passion and fury within sides

Which protect us from rages which stir

Minds who capture sounds which purr

From bodies whose rhythm does stagger

Out of like minds which are laggard

As others now do witness. and push on

With tunes which sing a different song



And the drifts of snow which block doors

Now open other doors onto open moors

From whose swamps creatures do ooze

As they rise up and make us choose

Good or Evil - and force us to sides

From which we must progress thru strides

As we look upon simple yet high visions

Whose focus comes from yet other legions



Whose roar is tantamount to that of a lion

Whose pride causes him to strut high on

Paws which patter quietly upon the ground

As he limbers after prey as he bounds

In leaps of energy glorified in spurts

Of wondrous thought which never hurts

For all of it stems from a heart of love

Which never slows for it comes from above



Much as this latest blast of cold and drifts

Which appeared as mysteriously as the rifts

Which raised themselves up from wet marshes

And dogged lions and tigers with harshest 

Words of ill-conceived notions and bad intent

As these creatures did ooze without relent

For they have too long suffered under mire

Which can stunt the growth of any sire



But proud lions ignore the smallest prey

And go after wildebeests on better days

For tracking one is half the pleasure

As lions who think do often take measure

And lay in wait for times more opportune

So they can pounce when others swoon

And then ... after their prey is caught

And they have taken feast, as they ought



They swagger with pride as they proceed

Onto greener pastures as they then lead

Us on to springs of quite another sort

Which have followed wintry passion's sport

In which we engaged ourselves without end

As we played hard games of another bend

And now we look ahead beyond the spring

As we wonder what other sport it'll bring.



- Tristram