He’s in the South now Summer’s here
Or that’s the tale we tell ourselves,
Living in the months-long dark
Rebuilding melted glacier shelves.
But he’ll be back when time allows,
Unwilling to let Autumn stay
For one more week or bright clear day;
Slow or swift he wants his way.
And once he’s here with all his train
No opportunity is lost
To blow and freeze, to rain and hail
To drown our fields and tear trees down.
No long-clawed Winter doesn’t sleep,
Though he might take a moment’s rest,
And let his servants, rime and fog
Show us all their worst, or best.
And when he’s ousted by the Spring
And has to flee these northern lands,
He simply goes back to the South
To exercise his ice-claws there.
There on Antarctica’s vast wastes
He has the space to rage and roar,
To stretch his long and spear-sharp claws
And rake them o’er the wide ice shelves.
Building mountains high and steep,
Delving valleys green and grey
He stirs the rolling southern seas
Which swirl around their icy coasts.
I’m not sure if this is finished – but here it is for the time being.