a cold night - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The night was a demon, glowering a full-featured scowl, setting the poor robin a-quiver. Darkness drew a cloak of icy-shadow around its avian heart, a heart that took to a sprint assuredly as if a shot were fired. A tempest wind of directionless angst stirred rain-droplets into a mist, a mean-spun mist that soaked puffed feathers through. Around his nested sticks, his place of sanctuary, a trolling taunt did whine. Those hours between sun fall and rise, were grim, were morose, were raw. They were a suffuse depression beyond my window pane. Yet for me, for the robin, little did we hear, the storm was fast losing its identity and the morrow would be bonny-bright.
A cold night, a lucid moon, heaven's eyes shine in the black as divine watchful mother.
Into the rich tapestry of blue, comes a woven blanket of hearth-spun grey, a comfort to each soul whom dreams upon such icy nights.
The cold night borrows body heat as if it were a cup of sugar, yet come the new light of day it returns with honeycomb.
A cold night gives us ever more reason to draw closer to one another, to feel the natural warmth we are born to give.
Frost grew over the windows even as the duvet kept me warm. I watched the ice-crystals grow for a while, allowing my brain to be empty, content to exist and be. The morning would bring the beauty of the ice for sure, that crunch under boot and the bold greeting cold air brings. Yet between now and watching my breaths rise as new white-puffed clouds there will be a very cold night. The kind that only stops at the doors of the well-made houses.
To each cold night is given a sun, be it son or daughter, they bring light divine.
The cold night was tucked under a woollen dove-grey sky.
It is the type of coldness that reaches into my bones, as if my heart were a door left wide open to the icy wind, slamming only to open again. The only thing to do is keep moving, keep heading toward home and the steady warmth of the hearth. The sky is rolling blanket of cloud the colour of wet ash, and the ground its dank reflection. Each step becomes a prayer for home as we walk, seeing the light from the doorway in our flickering daydreams, letting it become more real than the stormy night.