Winter On a Whim
The sun does sit so low,
Over the bare English premise,
As the swallows lark before the snow,
Swift, gracious, cutting air with ease.
The air and wind bite the rosie cheeks,
Beautiful sun sets and rise’s on grey,
Moisture hangs in the air and drags over the peeks,
As the darkness creeps in earlier every day.
The dim glow of lights in every house,
You can feel the warmth, the love,
Sharing the year’s crop, feed the poor,
‘tis the season, the sun will die, then rise above.
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