Icy Fingers
It is cold tonight, the winds fingers have
ice on their tips. They run down your cheek
and arrest the colour, leaving them pale,
pale as the stark moon that sulks the sky.
I walk with the sound of quick breathing
and pattering paws on a cobblestoned road,
dark shadows and strange silhouettes stalk
me around the lamplight. Summer has
closed its door, the nights are longer and
more melancholy. The darkness hides the
colours as the think they see what is not
there, and the neck hairs stand on end.
Yet there is a beauty in the freshness and
the peace, the stars and drifting clouds.
Are not backs and greys, silver ad white
colours to. On we walk with the occasional
glance just to reassure that each others
there, and for each other we always are.
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