lonely winter

Lonely winter

                                 By Sherry Golding





The memories were written in my notebooks. The day when the clouds had sagged, burdened with the heavy weight of icy water anxious to paint the earth. The grey mass filled every blue that had been in the sky. Birds had stopped flapping their wings towards the sky,frightened of the power and rage in the winds as they swept around the north,east and west, with the intent of causing death and destruction.

Even the south was not safe,and yet the creatures of the air, and the ground, found places to hide where the winds would never find them. Hopefully!

Snow flurries that had escaped already from the sinking clouds, danced in the air, and the wind caught them as they dropped, tossing them mercilessly so that in the end they looked like mini tornadoes.

The clouds let go of their heavy pregnancies, and unleashed so much snow that it covered every tree,house, car, and ground within minutes. The painting was not trapped in eternity. Tomorrow the sun would fight its way out of the menacing clouds, and start to melt the picture of seeming serenity.

A lonely and aging stone church had escaped the onslaught. Dazzling lights shone from within, beaming their way out of a window decorated with a golden cross. Clear crystals had been glued on its strong frame. Some bird droppings stained across one arm of the cross. A pigeon cooed from within the warmth of a crack, and another, its mate, briefly popped its head out until a flurry of snow touched its beak. It retreated quickly, startling the one that had cooed. Another dropping found its way down the wall, and slid slowly onto the window, covering the arm in another inch of white, which resembled the snow.


The sheep, standing in the meadows, waited for the sheep dog to come and guide them home. They were no longer able to nibble at the fresh green grass so all they could do was stare at nothing.

The church bells rang,faintly. The elderly bell ringer, his arms weaker each year, shivered as the chill crept into the cracks of the church. He looked sullen as he tugged ever so slowly on the ropes.

The painting, created by the snow, allured me to gaze at the beauty. It was as if I were staring into, and being within a dream of peace.

 I heard the winds whispering now to the creatures of nature as they slowed down. The winds were calm now, the anger faded. Yet, the ice in the air, and the bitter cold sought to continue its murdering path.

I could no longer see the flower garden a few metres away. The tulips, the roses, the daisies, even the poppies. The snow had drowned them under a heavy blanket of freezing ice. I could no longer hear the blackbird with its beautiful melody, or the sparrows trying to become as exquisite as a choir. Not a creature was seen. No one dared to brave the anger of nature.

I longed to feel the soft of the snow, and had to try not to tread on the ice, which was blanketing the pond. Underneath the snow, life hid in the roots, under the soil, and in every hole or crack.

The church was ancient and belonged to history, a time that had passed and yet still left part of its memory remaining.

Just like my memory. It remained, forever trapped within my notepad of history, and in the present whenever I wanted to reflect on it again.

I return to the place repeatedly, in different seasons, trapping each incident on the

Paper and each time, I never return to what was. The experiences are always different even when I am in the same place. That is what I find so remarkable about nature and the changingtimes. It will never be boring.


End of lonely winter by SherryGolding.

I find that writing about nature, or the seasons, is so enjoyable and relaxing that it heals my mind, and brings a lovely feeling of inner peace.


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