Winter has come.

The day dawned grey, not uniform grey, but streaked and lined,

Long-limbed clouds reaching out across the sky

And touching tendril fingers with gossamer strength.

The north wind chastened the autumn day, with ice-frosted

Promise of winter still to come. Of winter, so close.

The year has turned, and now its face is dark and hardened,

Lined with the pain of dying summer, and careworn

From the burden of grief for long dead spring.

And as the grey light lifts and swirls from leaden depth

To fine wrought silver, tarnished but dully gleaming,

The echo of a voice comes on that northern wind

And the soft tones are raised in a lament for those 

Who are no longer with us.

Each death brings back that one death,

Each death for each of us recalls the death

That first cut us deep, and wounded without hope of healing.

There can be no escape from death, it comes to 

All, but still she should not have gone so soon.

So many, all have gone too soon.

(c) 2ndwitch, 03/10/13