Not that yesterday ...

Ice inching snow slipping
And a wind that whistles
Round the hanging leaves.
Grey and brown against stark white
And black in the shadows.
A whirring and winging
Of birds, gathered greedily
On the feeders.
A soft song of sadness
From the trees
As they wave at the
Snow-leaded skies,
Hoping for a glimpse of
Summer's sun.
As the afternoon passes,
The echoes of days gone
Linger in the watcher's ear,
And give answer to the
Simple question,
Yes,
Yes, you are getting older.

© 2ndwitch, 16/01/14