Through deep snow the men trudge
Heavy with tread and breath
Wrapped in thick coats and balaclavas.
Onwards they must march, dark figures
Silhouetted on a bed of alabaster
Against the bright morning sun.
Their quarry is alone; he knows the terrain.
He is close, close enough to be seen
But still far, visible one moment
Gone the next.
His pursuers are embittered, missing homely comforts
Their imprints primal and firm.
Beyond the mountains, a blizzard
Gathers speed, blowing across and sideways
Heavy white mass falling in chunks;
The men, tired, stand rooted, immobile
Like mythical figures in a harsh landscape
Drawn by a Dutch master.
In the summer, they stand diminished,
Denuded almost, their heroic grandeur reduced
As they disintegrate in the burning heat,
Mocked and laughed at by the sun
For their defiance of nature, mere pawns
Fighting the order against all rationale.
