Midwinter

Oh, the grey of the heavens is greyer Than the faces of the eternal dead, As they crease and splinter decaying With a texture of chapel roof lead. The ice that sails in on the howling Of winds that descend from the hills, Burns through the cloth and the flesh With a fury of ravening chills. Oh, the black of the river is blacker Than the feathers of raven wings, As the waters in slow motion currents Creep like the death of all things. The eyes that seize onto the vista Film with cataracts stippled with frost, And in the bleak depths of midwinter Sleeps the land of the lonely and lost.