Thursday, October 03, 2013

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


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