Fiction

And so the weary wanderer sallied forth into the white
Wrapped in wools and bound in boots of animal hide.
Trudge, trudge, trudge; his footfalls heavy with waterlogged snow
Boldly he marched on, the rain soaking him right through to his bones.
As the icy wind buffeted against his cheek like a thousand tiny insects biting him, he had to halt.
The way was blocked: a raging torrent from left to right, its surging grey waters forming a vast lake before him.
Unwilling to ford the freezing floodwaters, he had no choice but to carve a new path.
Doubling back and around the obstacle, he bravely soldiered on,
squelching through the slurry, shivering and longing for the warmth of the home he had left behind.
As his expedition continued through the misty murk, he had to deal with more drifts and evade more snow-mires,
From time to time he was able to follow the half-melted footprints of adventurers past;
It gave him comfort to know that others had made it through. Perhaps he too would survive the journey.
Suddenly, he rounded a corner, and he was there. His pale face smiled as he saw it.
He’d made it. He entered the station, boarded the waiting train and got to the office right on time.

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A little something I wrote on the way to work this morning. Feedback welcome.