North Wind.

When wagons cart gold sheaves from autumn's fields
And wounded apples bleed under stark boughs
Of trees white winter severed from their yields,
Cold farmers in warm barns stack up their ploughs.
Aeolus, King of Winds, draws a deep breath
As Boreas, the North Wind, starts to blow
Across the earth, where cows and goats bereft
Of emerald pastures hover in brown snow.
Orchards and woods, whipped by pitiless gales,
Shake like derelict Lear on England's heath.
Children whose dreams of games outdoors have paled
Scurry inside doors decked with Christmas wreaths
Where one needs no jacket, no boots to stroll
Through the white, silent terrains of the soul.