Anthony's Literary Lens

Tag: snow

  • A Wisp of Frozen Breath

    A Wisp of Frozen Breath

    Pack moves as one shadow.
    Scents write stories in the air.
    Silence howls through teeth.

    Wolf
    What’s for lunch?

    The air bites my nostrils, sharp and clean—a thousand stories carved into ice crystals. I taste the forest before I see it: the musk of a sleeping vole three paw-lengths beneath the snow, the sour tang of last week’s elk carcass rotting under a spruce, the sharp warning of a rival pack’s urine marking the eastern ridge. My world is written in scent, each breath a page turned. 

    Snow crunches beneath my paws, a rhythm syncopated with the others. My pack moves as one shadow, our breath pluming silver in the twilight. The moon is a pale smudge behind clouds, but I do not need it. My eyes drink the dark, painting the forest in strokes of indigo and charcoal. The trees are skeletal sentries, their branches clawing at a sky heavy with silence. To you, this would be blindness. To me, it is clarity. 

    A whine ripples through the pack—”Young One”, restless, her paws too loud. “Mother” answers with a low chuff, a sound that vibrates in my ribs. We do not waste words. Our voices are layered: the flick of an ear, the tilt of a muzzle, the cadence of our howls that stitch the horizon together. When we sing, the mountains sing back. Distance means nothing. 

    Then—”there”. 

    A thread of warmth unspools in the cold. Musk. Salt. Fear. It floods my sinuses, vivid as a scream. My mouth waters; my muscles coil. The scent is a map: “hind leg favoring the left… young moose, separated… half a mile north, where the pines thicken”. The pack feels it too. Shoulders tense. Tails lift, quivering. 

    “Now”, says the wind. “Now”. 

    We move like smoke. Snow muffles our steps, but the prey’s heartbeat thunders in my skull. My vision narrows to nothing but the chase. The forest blurs into streaks of shadow and movement. I taste the moose’s panic now, sour and bright, a spark against the cold. The pack fans out, a crescent moon of teeth and intent. 

    “Closer.” 

    The world shrinks to the heat of running blood, the sound of crunching snow, the electric tang of “almost”. My legs are fire. My pulse is a drum. 

    And then— 

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  • Ramble to the summit of life

    Ramble to the summit of life

    The Brecon Beacons loomed in the distance, their snow-capped peaks smudged by a veil of mist. I snapped a picture from the base, and the image felt as though I was staring at an unattainable dream—a far-off cathedral built for gods, not mortals like me.

    Brecon Beacons January 2025

    The peaks seemed untouchable, enshrined in a kind of holy fog, as if they were hiding some secret I wasn’t meant to know. But what else could I do? I tightened my laces and started walking.

    The trail began innocently enough, a gradual incline, a whisper of mud clinging to my boots, and the wind humming a tune, as if to say ‘this place is not for you’. Step by step, the Beacons grew taller and stranger. The snowline hovered above me like an unspoken threat, a reminder that everything good in life comes with its sharp edges and cold hands. I wondered if I’d even make it. I wondered now why I’d started at all.

    Somewhere just below the snowline, I stopped to catch my breath. That’s when I saw it. A deer. Small, delicate, its legs like question marks frozen in mid-thought. It stared at me for a moment, eyes wide, then leapt away into the trees, vanishing like a memory you can’t quite hold onto. I watched the spot where it disappeared, as if waiting for it to come back and explain itself. But it didn’t. And why should it? Some things are meant to be glimpsed, not understood.

    Snow-capped peaks above,
    Cold trials test weary feet—
    I walk through the doubt.

    The higher I climbed, the thicker the mist became. I felt like I was walking into a dream, one of those nonsensical ones where the setting changes as soon as you think you’ve figured it out. The snow crunched under my boots, and the world shrank to the size of my next step. The peaks I had seen from below were gone, swallowed by the fog. For a while, I thought I might be swallowed, too.

    It was harder than I thought it would be, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it. But isn’t that how life feels sometimes? Like you’re staring up at some impossibly high peak, the path ahead hidden in mist, and every step forward feels like a gamble. But still, you keep going. Not because you’re sure you’ll make it, but because there’s nowhere to turn back to.

    Then, suddenly, I was there. The mist broke like a spell lifting, and the summit unfolded in front of me. The snow glittered in the sunlight, and the peaks stretched out like an unrolled map. It was vast and beautiful and sharp-edged, and for the first time in hours, I felt like I could breathe.

    Looking back down the trail, I thought of the image I’d taken at the base. That distant, unreachable peak was now beneath my feet. The mist that had seemed so impenetrable was gone, burned away by nothing more than time and effort. I thought about the deer, how it had stopped just long enough to remind me that there is beauty in the world and how it had raised my spirits to keep going.

    The walk back down was easier, as it always is. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how the summit had felt. Like a small, personal victory. Like proof that the peaks in life—the ones that feel impossibly far away, hidden by fog and fear—are often closer than we think.

    You just have to keep walking.

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  • The Song of the Winter Swans

    The Song of the Winter Swans

    Ice covers the lake
    Swans sing of what they’ve forgotten—
    Silent wings remember.

    On a brittle December morning, Yuki stood at the edge of the frozen lake. The air felt sharp, like the edge of a paper freshly torn, and the snow under her boots crackled softly. In the distance, two swans flew low over the water, their wings slicing the pale winter light. She watched them, transfixed, as they moved in perfect unison, like dancers following an invisible thread. 

    Yuki had come to the lake every winter since she could remember, drawn by something she couldn’t name. She wasn’t the sort of person who believed in omens or ghosts. But there was a weight in the air here, a kind of gravitational pull, as if something important had happened long ago and the echo of it still hung in the frozen reeds. 

    The swans flew in a slow arc, circling the lake as if searching for something lost. Then, without warning, one of them let out a low, mournful cry. It wasn’t a sound Yuki had ever heard before—not quite bird, not quite human. The sound folded into the winter air, spreading out across the lake in waves. She felt it in her chest, as if the cry had carved out a hollow space there and filled it with snow. 

    “You heard it too, didn’t you?” 

    The voice startled her. She turned and saw an old man standing a few feet away, bundled in a dark coat that hung loose around his frame. His face was pale and deeply lined, like a map of forgotten places. 

    “The swan’s song,” he said, nodding toward the lake. “Not many people can hear it.” 

    Yuki hesitated, unsure if she should answer. “It sounded… sad,” she said finally. 

    The man chuckled softly, a dry, papery sound. “That’s because it is. They only sing like that in winter, you know. When they remember.” 

    “Remember what?” 

    He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gazed out at the swans, now gliding silently over the water. “There’s a story about this lake,” he said after a while. “A strange one. Do you want to hear it?” 

    Yuki nodded, though she wasn’t sure why. 

    “They say that long ago, this was a place where people came to forget. The lake would take your memories, all of them, and bury them beneath the ice. Some people came willingly, hoping to escape grief or regret. Others were brought here against their will, their memories stolen as punishment for something they’d done. Either way, the lake kept their secrets. 

    “But memory is a stubborn thing. It doesn’t just disappear. It sinks, yes, but it doesn’t die. And in the winter, when the lake freezes over, those lost memories rise to the surface. That’s what the swans are singing about. They’re the ones who guard the memories, you see. They carry them in their wings, their feathers, their song. But the burden is heavy. Too heavy. So every winter, they cry out. Not to us, but to each other. To say: *I remember too.*” 

    The man fell silent. Yuki stared at the swans, her breath fogging in the cold air. The idea was absurd, of course. Swans as guardians of forgotten memories? And yet, the longer she watched them, the more she felt that there was something beneath their wings, something vast and unseen, like the dark waters beneath the ice. 

    When she turned back, the man was gone. There were no footprints in the snow where he had stood. 

    For weeks afterward, Yuki couldn’t stop thinking about the swans and their song. She returned to the lake every day, but the man never reappeared, and the swans remained silent. Still, she felt as if the lake had left something inside her, a quiet ache she couldn’t name. 

    Late one night, she dreamed of flying over the lake, her body weightless and cold. She could hear the swans crying below her, their voices weaving together in a language she almost understood. When she woke, her pillow was damp, and her throat ached, as if she had been singing in her sleep. 

    It wasn’t sadness, exactly, that stayed with her after that. It was more like a memory of sadness, something faint and indistinct, like the outline of a figure walking away through falling snow. 

    And every winter after, when she heard the distant cry of the swans, she would pause, her breath catching in her chest, and wonder what it was they were trying to say.

    Let me know how this piece leaves you feeling and what it makes you think about.

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  • Frozen Flight of Fancy

    Frozen Flight of Fancy

    White on white, a world subdued,
    Nature’s hush, a solitude.
    Swans like whispers on the stream,
    A frozen dream, a tranquil theme.

    Anthony
    It was a bit chilly

    This image depicts a tranquil scene of two swans gliding gracefully across a wintery river. The artist has captured the elegance of the swans with their long, slender necks and  pristine white feathers. The artist has used  subtle brushstrokes to depict the movement of the water as the swans glide effortlessly through it.

    In the background, the artist has rendered a  detailed landscape of trees laden with snow. The use of a subtle colour palette, with browns and whites, creates a sense of winter’s chill. The artist has  skillfully captured the way the snow  blankets the trees, creating a sense of peace and serenity.

    The use of light and shadow is  reminiscent of  the works of the Dutch Golden Age masters, such as Jan van Eyck or  Pieter Bruegel the Elder. The artist has  used light to  highlight the  whiteness of the swans and the snow,  creating a sense of  calm and tranquillity.

    Overall, the image is a  beautiful and serene portrayal of a winter landscape. The artist has  skillfully captured the elegance of the swans and the beauty of the wintery scene.

    Written by a proper art critic (promise;)

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  • Valley’s Call to Soar

    Valley’s Call to Soar

    Upon yonder snow-kissed peak, I stand, a lone voyager, a wanderer in a world dressed in pristine white. The valley below, a cradle of dreams and whispered tales, beckons to my very soul. In this moment, I am possessed by a longing, a fervent desire to defy gravity’s chains, to soar as if I were a feather carried by the winds of eternity.

    Standing atop a snow-covered peak, I’m reminded that nature is the purest form of poetry

    View form Pen-y-fan in the Brecon Beacons, Wales. Tap to view my redbubble gallery.

    The valley, a canvas of undulating shadows and glistening promises, unfolds before my eyes, an expanse of dreamscape and memory. The world, adorned in the icy silence of winter, is a chalice of endless possibility, where the spirits of all that once was, and all that could be, commune in a timeless dance.

    As the sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the valley, my heart quickens with a fierce yearning to leap from this precipice. To become one with the soaring eagles, to taste the air of the gods, and to trace my path across the heavens with wings of dreams.

    But, alas, I am bound by the earthly tether, my feet planted on this frozen throne. Yet, in my mind’s eye, I am unburdened, a phoenix ascending, liberated from gravity’s relentless grip. The valley below whispers secrets of flight, of dreams unfettered, and for a brief moment, I am convinced that I could fly, for I am a poet of the heart, embracing the universal longing to transcend the ordinary and become part of the elemental poetry of the world.

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  • Autumnal Magic

    Autumnal Magic

    A Glimpse of Beauty in Decay
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    As I walked through the rust-colored woods on a crisp autumn morning, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The leaves on the trees were mostly on the ground making the path a thick carpet of fallen leaves. I could hear the crunch of my boots on the leaves as I made my way down the winding path that led to the lake.

    As I approached the lake, I could see that the water was frozen solid, the surface covered with a thin layer of snow. In the center of the lake, there was a small island, and on the island stood a beautiful old church. The church was made of stone and had a steeple that reached towards the sky. The windows were stained glass, and the doors were heavy oak.

    I walked out onto the frozen lake, the ice creaking beneath my feet. As I got closer to the island, I could see that the church was in a state of disrepair. The roof was missing tiles, and the stone walls were covered in vines and moss. Despite its dilapidated state, the church had a certain charm and beauty about it.

    I stood in front of the church for a moment, admiring the way the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows and cast a warm, golden glow on the interior. The church was silent and still, frozen in time, waiting for a congregation to thaw it back to life.

    As I turned to leave, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness. The church on the island in the frozen lake was a beautiful and peaceful place, but it seemed to be forgotten and left to decay. I could only hope that one day, someone would come along and restore it to its former glory.

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  • Finding Joy in the Simple Things: A Snow-Covered Valley

    Finding Joy in the Simple Things: A Snow-Covered Valley

    Snowy Charm

    There’s something undeniably magical about a snow-covered valley. The way the powdery white blanket coats the landscape, transforming it into a winter wonderland, is a sight to behold.

    As I stand on the edge of the valley, I can’t help but be in awe of the beauty that surrounds me. The trees are heavy with snow, their branches bent low under the weight. The ground is a pure, untouched white, and the air is crisp and clean.

    I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the fresh, icy air. It’s a bit chilly, but I don’t mind. The cold never bothered me much, and besides, the beauty of this place is well worth braving a little bit of frost.

    I set off down the path, crunching through the snow with each step. The valley stretches out before me, a vast expanse of white. It’s peaceful here, with only the sound of the crunching snow beneath my feet and the occasional chirp of a bird breaking the silence.

    As I make my way deeper into the valley, I begin to see the tracks of other animals. There are rabbits and squirrels, their prints crisscrossing the snow. I even spot a set of deer tracks, leading off into the trees.

    Despite the cold, I feel a warmth in my chest as I take in the beauty of this place. It’s a reminder of the simple joys in life, of the beauty that can be found in the most unexpected places.

    As the sun begins to set and the sky turns a deep shade of pink and orange, I turn to head back. But I know that this is a place I’ll return to again and again, to bask in the peace and beauty of a snow-covered valley

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