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.