Slowly but surely, he trudges ahead,
wearing his grey cloak of winter,
Smoking the fog, through his wood pipe,
And dusting dry leaves off his shoulder.
He runs his hand through his tousled hair,
that the nor'wester put astray,
And wipes the snow flakes off his brow,
as he looks on far far away.
Far away it is, his home of warmth
A long long way, by the frozen lake,
But no he does'nt, stop for breath,
He must reach before daybreak.
So he buries his boots, deeper in ice,
and swings his arms with strength.
The nor'wester howling louder in his ears,
Spewing ice and fog much dense.
But he walks and walks, for miles and miles,
Braving the icy wind and haze,
Dreaming and thinking, of his cozy bed
He lumbers at a steady pace.
And then he sees, the lantern burning
in the street lamp at the square,
Which warms his heart, with joy unbound
coz' he knows he's finally there!
So he marches through ice, and fog and snow
Stumbling up against his door,
Struggling and straining he unlocks it,
Stepping carefully on the dry floor.
Then tears run down his chapped cold cheeks,
and trickle through his grey moustache,
then dropping down on his grey cloak
soaking with the melting ice.
So he lights the fire, in his hearth
and rests in his rocking chair
Staring at the rafters above
and smelling the damp home air.
Soon he fades off into slumber
thinking of the sun at dawn,
While a lone white flower, blooms at his steps
winking back at the bright white moon.
