Winter

The clouds grow thick today

This wind calls the bitter cold night

And over these drab faces falls a pall slate grey

Twill cast shadows upon a murky world

 

Shorn and closed fast is the limited way

Pushed through close mire and diminishing light

“And at the end a precipice” sullen voices will say

And you’ll heed them and be chilled

 

Over flowing streams grow an oily glaze

They’ll slow-thicken and deny you bitter respite

Even in blackness there’s the thrill of minds’ fey

But all is cold and dull in these misty curls

 

Let us not then talk of the joys of Spring

Nay we must trudge

And hold life within