Winter comes, sharp-faced and bony-fingered
clawing an icy cover across a land
barren in hibernation;
while we tight-lipped, close-buttoned
hatted, scarved, and gloved
speak muffled mists
mingling silvered breath with the thickening air,
while we pick our way on treacherous paths
or stride out, slicing the frosty silence,
when the low slung sun blinds south bound drivers
and passengers turn their faces into its warming rays;
quietly this frozen earth turns
towards its lengthening days
the orange sun colours clouds deep coral
and on the horizon – like a distant fire – glows
through the black tracery of trees
and a lone crow pierces the crisp air of the dying sky –
so Winter comes.
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