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Snow - Loreena McKennitt

White are the far-off plains, and white
The fading forests grow;
The wind dies out along the height,
And denser still the snow,
A gathering weight on roof and tree,
Falls down scarce audibly.

The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere.

Save when at lonely spells
Some farmer’s sleigh, urged on,
With rustling runners and sharp bells,
Swings by me and is gone;
Or from the empty waste I hear
A sound remote and clear;

The barking of a dog
To cattle, sharply pealed,
Borne echoing from some wayside stall
Or barnyard far afield;

Then all is silent and the snow falls
Settling soft and slow
The evening deepens and the grey
Folds closer earth and sky
The world seems shrouded, far away.

Its noises sleep, and I secret as
Yon buried streams plod dumbly on and dream.

Winter Nostalgia

There is an old film of songs that never strays from its place closest to the heart.

Forgotten yet strangely vivid memories that carry a nameless emotion are contained within it. 

Reflections that herald a sense of absolute peace and contentment, yet the feelings are bittersweet. 

Memories that in themselves have no life-changing significance, yet they hold a sentimentality that almost physically aches.

They hurt, and it is a cherished pain.



Many pictures flit through the mind. Some real, others not. 

Images of remembrances and scenes conjured up to entertain a child’s dream-filled imagination. 



Of a dark room and hours spent lying under a tree, admiring the lights that adorned it. The smell of hot chocolate and homemade wassail.

Of a black night, wracked with storms and the ground covered in a deep blanket of white. A figure wrapped in furs, huddling against a rock to escape the winds of the wilderness. 

Of a midnight-blue sky filled with stars. Or is it snow?

Of moving lights of color in a still night.

Of a season at its cruelest, and at its most beautiful.


The list continues ever on…


All are silent, save a distant, lyricless melody.

All are bitter cold, save a tiny, unknown source of warmth. 

All are lifeless, save one unidentified figure.



All are Winter…

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The “old film” is Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas in the Aire.

WIP - The Second Nightmare from chapter 3 of Lady Charity’s Syrgja.

Charity writes the flashback sequences in a rather abstract style with just enough detail that the reader can see what’s happening. I’m hoping to visually imitate that feeling. You can just barely make out Loki in the red area right now, the Chitauri will show up later.

I’ve been attacking this scene off and on over the past few months with no satisfaction in the results. I finally opted to focus more on the world around Loki and the Chitauri, and let the reader’s imagination run wild.

… Because the unknown is far more terrifying.

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