In the grey expanse of Newfoundland’s breath,
Where icy waters whisper tales untold,
Islands rise from the cold, damp depth,
Their craggly forms in stark shadows bold.

The sky hangs low, a shroud of spectral black,
Brushing this world in a chill that bites,
Cold damp seeps through, leaves its mark,
Mildew blooms where the sun refrains from light.

Waves beat with a ghostly, relentless thrum,
Against the stone shores where the seagulls mourn,
Each spray, a chill kiss from the bitter scum,
A haunting melody of the forlorn.

Yet amid this solemn, spectral hue,
A quiet majesty is softly penned,
In the desolate, cold silence, truths
Emerges, raw, in the grey wind’s bend.

Newfoundland's heart, unyielding, stark,
Lies cloaked in winter’s deepest sighs,
A land where cold and grey embark
On tales of rugged, unyielding skies.

M. S Chandler