Snowstorm After Sunset

The sun dim in its blaze, is trite to persevere in its dear fight to hang on to the sky, sets quite earthward like a down-sloping kite; dark to th' land, its grave did invite. Arrives the countless toothed plight, from whom furs, plums, scales perceive bite. Like a mind infernous to smite, the stony hoary force strikes tight to agonise the space with spite. Like a colossal silver sprite furious with fire from the cloud's height, winter's wind moves in gruelling might with icy rage restless in flight. Peace survives, storm's harshness despite. Its flakes of milk in sizes slight; those crystals blazing in moonlight; those small chips resting, icing white moors, vales, hills, other every sight- in snow-coat, the landscape is dight. Its frost oozing presence, the blight that positions the hug of fright on the homeless souls, who outright wish a hearth, a home of fire bright to heavenly soothe warm their night.