Maiden Of The Marches

Maiden Of The Marches

Bitter, wild wind,
You claw at my face,
Your power so hungry,
Your calmness misplaced.

I thought I heard thunder,
Rage through the trees,
As gusts trespassed, racing,
With icy cold freeze.

The sky is a monster,
Of battles to come,
Thrust crystalline needles,
Extremities numb!

A snow blasting blizzard,
A skirmish of storms,
Hoping for change,
For the scene to transform.