Friday, January 31, 2014

On January passing . . .

Soft spoken words are whispered, floating and whirling on a snow-laden
Wind, howling and murmering, caressing and steel-gripping the
Speaker, and piercing through their skin with skeletal knives.
Promises, muttered reluctantly, are tossed into a whirlpool of
Indecision, where they blend and fracture into a thousand pieces.
There are no sticks and stones, but the razor-edged breath of
An approaching storm can cut and bruise in their stead. And does.
Wintery fingers are caressing slowly the arching spine of despair,
And with frosted ink they underline the soft words, the spoken and
Broken promises. The scythe of the reaper is moving ever closer
And swings to and fro and to and fro and to and fro, a metronome
To measure the very heartbeat of death. The ticking clock paces
Out the passing of time, until the hour when the chime will crow
As did the cock, and another night will be ended, and dawn, silver with
Import, and colder than ice, will herald another cloud spun day.
Ghosts of those who have gone before are returning, and spinning a
Web of gossamer memory, shimmering with unshed tears; 
Voices, past voices, singing the insistent concerto of a siren call
To surrender, chorus and interweave their counter-melodies until
The listener cannot bear the pain. Shattered, and screaming, the mind
Casts round for respite, looks to find shelter, protection, but finds only
Another and another and another bell tower, and another and another
And another cacophony of bells that ring out the changes that are time itself.

(c) 2ndwitch, 31/01/14


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