The Caravan
Figures of men and horses, a caravan,
exposed on the white. Equipped with masks,
equipped with ropes, equipped with information
about the curse of Brady and Hindley to deliver,
equipped with an aura of hope. They travel inside
the cauldron where Winter brewed a war with a
swirling storm of screaming silver.
The hug of a dense mist embraces the area,
isolating the caravan. Smudged mountains shiver
on the thick white canvas. Snow sleep still
on the uneasy battleground and frozen river,
rocked by the lullaby of the howling wind.
Metal horseshoes grind against the sea of snow
followed by crashing waves of spiralling white, as
horses trod through the battleground
that feels like mud,
Wind howls as the white projectiles
waltz in its rhythm.
The ballad of the caravan whispers in the background
of Winter's eternal solo,
spraying kisses of cool, white confetti
onto the shield of the masks and coats bound
to the faces.
The caravan advance steadily,
leaving behind the
Safe and Sound,
with waves of silver daggers surround
them, pointing towards them,
unleashing on Winter's command.
Walls of feather and silk embrace
the Men's warm skin. The masks conceal
the Men's dry, aching throats, sheltering them
from a lurking murderer. The winter whoosh
the land with its scourging anger, but They march
along the battlefield, fending off
wintry weaponry. Eyes glimmer with light,
as if reflecting rays from heaven that
pierced the heavy mist. Majestic snow and ice
linger around the dense air in an elegant waltz,
blending the black of the Caravan with the wintry white
into gray shadows that submerge
towards the thumping hearts of the people.