A Winter’s Dream

Walshaw dean reservoir

Silent and still on a winter’s morn,
Not a breath of wind — the world reborn.
Snow lies soft on moorland bare,
A muffled quiet fills the air.

The sky above, of a bright blue hue,
As dawn breaks through with a golden hue.
Light dances on the frosted ground,
Each crystal shining, crisp and round.

Cold air brushes against my face,
A trembling sting, a fleeting grace.
My breath escapes in drifting white,
A gentle warmth against the bite.

Before me, Walshaw Dean reservoir lies —
The mirror of the moorland skies.
Its surface still, a flawless sheen,
Reflecting winter’s silver gleam.

No sound at all — the moor is hushed,
As though all movement has been crushed.
Until a single bird takes wing,
Its fragile notes begin to sing.
A flutter, soft — the quiet breaks,
And life stirs gently in its wake.

The air is sharp with winter’s scent,
Like iron, peat, and earth unbent.
A smell so clean it clears the mind,
Leaving frozen calm behind.

Upon my lips, the cold air clings,
A hint of snow — pure, fleeting things.
The taste of winter, crisp and clear,
A flavour only found out here.

I lingered there, letting the moment stay,
And watching shadows creep through the day.
The cold creeps warmly under skin,
A strange, soft kinship pulling in.

Though soon the melt will weave its way through stone,
And streams will sing where ice has grown,
I stand within this pause of time,
A breath between the frost and rhyme.

For here the world feels hushed and whole,
Its silence settling in my soul.
A gentle grace in a bluish gleam —
A quiet warmth in A Winter’s Dream.