Open Writing

Frost at Midnight by Ronnie Bray

Tiny crystals of frost, performing their secret ministry, sparkled through beams from the veranda light in the midnight air. The moon was one day away from full.

After it had visited the land of the maple leaf, home of the beaver, from the polar ice cap, the Canadians made us a present of a sub-zero wind. The trade-off was a brilliant moon, and shimmering starlight.

So bright was the moon, that every detail of our surroundings was visible at dead of night. That is a Hunter’s Moon, and, like everything else in this place, has to be seen to be appreciated.

We never try to describe the breathtaking splendour of this place. No one would believe it, and who could blame them? Instead, we say, "Come and see!"

Last night we got ready for bed at midnight. Shep flopped on his bedding on Gay’s side, and Frankie took up a middle position on top of the Continental Quilt.

Our bedtime arrangement is that Gay goes down the hallway with the light on, and hits the bed. I execute my bedtime routine that comprises turning off the TV, closing the outside doors, outing all the lights, and inviting the dogs to come to bed.

The dogs, wise birds, wait until I turn off the hall light and then, and only then, when they are sure I am really retiring, make their way to our palace of dreams. That is when I make my way to bed.

But last night, when I turned off the light in the lounge and looked through the window across the meadow, the whole of outdoors was lit by the moon so that I could see every tree at the edge of the meadow, and in the north woods. Looking eastwards, I could see the faint outline of Turner Mountain a couple of miles away, rising to five thousand feet.

I went into the bedroom where Gay looked very comfortable and snug under the duvet, and invited her to come and look out of the lounge windows to take in the beauty of a moonlit night.

Taking her by the hand, I bid her rise, and led her to the magic window through which we saw another world: a world that few see because they are sleeping, and those lines of Wordsworth’s ran again through my mind, as they so often do in this earthly Paradise, "Earth hath not anything to show more fair.''

There in the dark, with the magic of that scene in our minds and hearts, we gripped each others hands, and turned again to bed, full of the sense of blessedness that so often washes over us in our wild-place cabin, under the winter moon, with our dogs and our love to keep us warm.

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2004
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

See more of Ronnie’s writing at:

http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voice
www.2theheart.com/poetrycontest2003