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.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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