Frozen, desolate, leafless trees sticking out of the ground like brown, bony, monster fingers breaking through the barren soil to take over the world. An eminent threat that has chased the colour green from the landscape.
Veld fires rage with crimson breath and a smokey desire to destroy roaming grasslands and leave behind scorched, apocalyptic fields of nothingness.
At the break of day, valleys are drenched in a haunting mist, engulfing, hiding everything with an icy fog. Patches of frost lay like puddles of white blood in the black, burned fields; an aftermath of a battle with the freezing dark.
The shadows grow unforgivingly, suffocating what remains of the warmth of the sun. A futile effort to defend the territory he so lovingly once inhabited, but lost to the relentless ambush and attack of the cold. The yellow star inevitably loses the fight and hands us over to the icy hands of the Creature from the North.
A chilly wind chase leaves and paper bags along empty roads. Howling like a snow wolf who’s lost its infant. Tugging and pulling on scarves and tightly held jackets that’s worn by stern faces with red ears, red noses and hidden hands.
Sounds of sneezes and coughs echo in the crisp air when the wind decides to shut up for a while.
Winterfell without snow and Ned Stark. A dark fortress, shortening our days and reducing temperatures to one digit lows.
Chimney stacks come alive with dark, bellowing smoke as families huddle around crackling fireplaces, drinking soup or watching TV, under piles of blankets… Kids talk through chattering teeth and Fathers complain with weary bones, as Mothers try and keep some perspective.
And it’s all because of Winter.
Which I hate. Because unlike other parts of the world, Winter in South Africa doesn’t come with Santa and the fluffy white stuff people ski on. It’s just miserable. Jack Frost is a real pain in the ass and Elsa, one cruel bitch.
You can have them both back.