A bitter gale whips virgin snow to scorn
and ice-hardened, join the storm
of tiny swirling lances,
to spin and swing in maddened senseless form.
Beneath the unrelenting flood of hail
a hunched-up village cowers.
The beatings rain
in biting lashes.
Whirlwind's hellish wail
screams misery - its own unmeaning pain
There, in the main street,
struggling shadows go
bent low against the blizzard's pounding force
fight through the biting fusillade of snow
intent upon their blinded, stumbling course.
The Church's lantern yellow light burns strong;
Receives her faithful to their evensong.