Into my soul Night’s chill wind screams,
scything starkly across my dreams;
the icy sheet of storm arrives
and raindrops strike my face like knives.
Out of the storm a bluebird flies;
with tender song it fills the skies.
Echoes of Summer come to me
and touch my heart with melody.
Through wind and storm I feel the Spring,
smell scents the Summer breezes bring;
around me in the fields of snow
new flowers rise and start to grow.
Song thaws my throat; I catch the tune
that bluebirds sing to herald June:
a music made for sunny days
a hymn to life, a song of praise
for seeds that burst from icy tomb
and seek the light to show their bloom,
for crickets who, come evening, play,
echoing sweetly songs of day,
for leaves which hang in forest air,
bright as emeralds, and as fair –
a song for beauty’s precious face
no bleak December can erase.
Reluctantly I turn to go
as bluebird flees the wintry blow,
yet in my heart on fields of snow
in Summer sun the flowers grow.
The rising sun lights on my eyes,
shining in bleak and empty skies,
and though around me Winter lies,
into my soul a bluebird flies.
©2017 Bill Hazelrig (written long ago)