Wolverine Winter

The chickadee came in the morning:

Over the Lake hung snow-clouds-piling,

Wheeling for the signal-for the signal

Of the lake gods coming to battle!

Up and down the West Coast went the Life Guards,

Sniffing at the air and frowning at the sky;

Peering out to westward, muttering to their Pard-

To their Pard, the surf seeping high.

While the Winter came out of the North

Stripped naked, cruel as a bloodless sword!

I carried in wood and I pumped me some water;

I cleaned out the chimney and doubled my quilts.

Then I phoned in to town and bid my pals adieu.

We cursed at the weather; promised our God a prayer.

For the Winter, the frozen Hell of the West Coast,

Like a weasel was sneaking down the shore.

Like the wraith of a profaned tomb it came.

I could see it twisting and writhing round the Point,

Round Little Sauble Point, where the pines and spruces

Whine in a gale like the over-taut string of a viol.

Out among the snow-clouds swept its scythe-like breath,

Fretting the pitching waves to frothy frenzies;

Catching their boiling crests in a creamy ice:

And where it passed the moisture was turned to snow.

At dusk, with a keening wrench and thrust, it left the

Lake;

Snarled at the Land; froze the West Coast dead!