There is a place where the raw polar winds blow, bitter and raging.
The trees stand tall next to me grasping their bony long roots into the freezing, snowy ground.
Still, I stroll through the isolated land when a gust of wind strong and whirling, hits my face bitterly ,chilling me to the bone.
The misty winds pick up the clouds which gather in groups, turning darker than ever, raging their tempers.
The snowy icy ground below my feet crackles like the fire.
By Olive Pujol (aged 8 years) R16
