The Hand of Winter

The golden leaves of Autumn now are falling, crisp beds upon the forests dampened floor, Winters hand will soon be in the meadows, for Summers passed another year once more. Life is quiet and now the winds are stirring, sounds of distant cries upon the lake, Summertime seems lost and gone forever, But once again in spring it will awake. As I walk along the golden pathways, by the ruin and the mossy bank, Where to times gone by, the mind so wanders, for this was where the wary traveller drank. I can see the sign upon the doorway, eat the drink what may before the fall, For as in ages gone along the highway, Winter hangs it's ice upon the wall. Still the water runs beneath the bridges, and a twig or two comes drifting by, still I hear a sound way down the river, as a pair of wings make leave to fly. Now the skies are grey oe'r gloomy treetops, gone now is the sound of mating call, gone the light and sunshine of a springtime, now onward comes the white of winter fall. Now the dark of night is drawing nigh me, as I turn the track and make my way, and once again, I think of cold bleak winter, then hurry back to where the homefires lay.