The child in all of us, embodied and fierce in the serene cold of winter. Adapting, hoarding, under the distant voice of mother moon. Encouraged or dissuaded, she does as she pleases, seeking colour in this anaemic season. But it seems being feral is an animalistic quality for the young.


The moon,

Obscured, could only whistle

To her shine

As the wind cried crescendo


Shrill and cruel

In wintry gusts

A breath of the wild:

Swirling, pressing, unabashed


With arms outstretched,

Premature cold

Falling as slick sleet,

She chased the leaves

And left a trail of

Jewel sodden creatures skittering;

Hopping, leaping

In bounds,

Penned and gated

By the garden fence;

And on them she spat,

To polish, make sleek

And store

In snow –

Childish treasures




In frost’s throes.



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

One thought on “Wild

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