The Hut in the Snow

[Stephen Whiteside]

The Hut in the Snow

There's a hut that I know that is buried in snow when the winter arrives at full steam.
Though it's solid and real, there are times that I feel it is scarcely much more than a dream.
When the door is shut tight and the fire's alight, the scene is impossibly sweet.
The chimney puffs smoke. Any sheila or bloke must surely feel calm and complete.

With currawongs found on the branches around, and possums hid under the snow,
And wombats about, there is never a doubt you are settled in nature's deep flow.
With the snow blanket tossed, your tracks will be lost as the seasons roll round into spring,
While the ridges that fall like the folds of a shawl with a chorus of birdsong will ring.

The world is beset by disasters. We fret as new ones arrive on our screen.
We feel just as glum at the one that's just come as the other that's only just been.
I try to take stock, but sometimes the shock feels just like a physical blow;
Like the claw of a beast, but it's tempered at least by the dream of that hut in the snow.

Stephen Whiteside 14.10.2016

[Shelley Hansen]

What a lovely poem, Stephen!

And how true it is that we all need a place (literal or imaginary) where we can find sanctuary from all that besets us.

Cheers
Shelley

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Shelley. Yes, that is so true, isn't it?

[Catherine Lee]

This is just lovely, Stephen - I especially like While the ridges that fall like the folds of a shawl and the last line also.

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thank you, Catherine - yes, I thought the ridges flowed rather smoothly off the keyboard!

[alongtimegone]

I like it very much Stephen, especially the clever way you used beset and fret
Wazza

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thank you, Wazza!