The journey

In the darkening of the year lies mystery, and hope

Is buried, brooding and lurking beneath the earth

Till spring. But, like the snowdrops that grow 

Under their November blanket, there comes a time

When the cold of snow and bitter cut of driving rain

Are parted. And then, and only then, the green shoots of

Hope thrust through the matted grass, and the pale

White flower blooms again.

The wild of winter winds, and steely slash of sleet,

Are but echoes of the storm that rages

In the heart of man. 

The driving snow that blizzards across the 

Windscreen of the slowly moving car is but a

Physical manifestation of the storm of words that

Are hurled and flung with acrid hurt from one

Person to another. 

And when the blizzard has settled, and the snow lies calm

Upon the frozen ground, the words will settle too.

Life is no tourist trip or pleasure cruise. There are 

No guarantees of a calm crossing, no

Certainty of a smooth itinerary. Trains will be missed,

And breakdowns will occur, and buses will not run.

But at the end, when the destination is reached, there

Will be time to stand and stare.

There will be time to rest and be still.

There will be time.

(c) 2ndwitch, 18/12/11