Of Ice and Darkness

'Tis again a wintry night
I sit alone in candlelight.
Through open fields I once did roam,
But now this ruined castle my home.

I traveled across the countryside,
Searching not for a place to hide,
But searching for a warm, soft bed
Upon which to rest my weary head.

Months ago over many misty moors,
With cold, stiff hands I pounded locked doors.
I was turned away by vacant stares and fearful eyes
And forced to endure my Sisyphean ride.

I stumbled through ancient forests of naked trees,
My feet benumbed by the rotting leaves.
I climbed over jagged boulders,
The cold granite bloodying my fingers.

During autumnal vespers
I sought shelter in Earth's deep caverns.
With the soothing rumblings of violent storms,
I'd light a fire to dry my bones and help keep warm.

Rain fell within and flooded my soul.
My heart became as black as coal,
And still I continued
My long search for you.

But with the creep of winter's chill,
I sought a better place to dwell.
Beneath frost-covered trees and snow-capped spires,
I found this place in which to retire.

My chamber is warmed only by a corner fireplace,
Though with open windows, I still feel cold on my face.
Two candles light the desk
Upon which these dark and bewitching words rest.

Crumbling walls and crumbling towers
Define my home in these brooding hours.
Echoes of my dying cries
Haunt me with each kiss of twilight.

To you I sing long, painful hymns
And churn out sluggish dirges on my weeping violin.
My miserable and woeful recitations
Are wed to rapturous bleakness birthed by lamentations.

Isolation, loneliness, and menacing despair
Have replaced you, my beautiful creature.
Without your presence I cannot hear you breathe,
So sleep does not come so easily to me.

A piercing frigidness hangs about the firmament
Like the icicles gripping tight the battlements.
I only hope to see you soon,
To end the somber nights in my anguished room.

In this great Northern land, a cold wind wails
In through the windows, causing my candles to fail.
My only light now the spiraling flame of the fire
In the corner; I shiver.

Timbers moan under weight of the snow
As the wind continues to forever blow.
For now, my journey is done,
But I'll wait for you, my beautiful one.

---

Originally written:    December 24, 2000
Put online:    March 11, 2001
Discussion:    The feeling of this poem, inspired by the icicles hanging outside my window at the time, is meant to be very medieval. The man is on a long journey (months) to search for and find his lost woman who has perhaps been kidnapped (but is not dead). The winter weather finally becomes too terrible for him, Nature will not let him continue, so he must find shelter and wait until he can resume his long search.


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