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It was a cold January night.
Heavy fog like an impervious shroud
Mist on the window pane,
and clippetty clop of the horse's shoes;
An unknown cobbled path.
Gusts of winter straining the heat -
snickering, treacherous liar.
A pair of oaks, old and stout, forming a canopy
tried in vain to stop it.
The liar said "Warmth misses you just as much."
"I can't feel my ears.", I said.
I shunned the liar, closed my eyes, clutching the reins,
promised to me it will end.
This dark fog will change its guise,
dazzling sunlight will reflect -
from last night's dew on my green grass.