White On Grey
Fallen flakes of pure white snow,
Laid to rest on sculpted stone.
Keeping their vigil; a silent duty,
A scene of strangely eerie beauty.
Bowing old trees heavy laden,
From the white touch of the Winter Maiden.
For she has made up a cold white bed,
Weaving a blanket to warm the dead.
If those passed on could rise and see,
They would truly rest in peace.
For they would know the quiet grace,
Which she has come to make this place.
Naught but names etched on stone,
Remembered, forgotten, unknown.
And Lady Winter weaves her lace,
And decorates with white on grey.
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