The Coming Of Winter

 

Near to the ice of grim winter

I stand in a storm of dry leaves.

Summer’s hopes spill and splinter. 

The dying sun sobs as it grieves.

What lies ahead is cold sadness,

brought by the strong storms’ madness

that gloats on my shattered gladness

and smiles on the bones of dead trees.

Enshrouded hills are now sleeping

lost in soft miasmas of mist.

Trees bend in wild winds that are weeping

cold tears on fields where we kissed.

Grey are the fields where the hare leapt;

Still are the streams where the trout kept

watch on the flies which the surge swept

down to green depths for their tryst.

Now the sad snow comes whirling

white from the womb of the sky.

On panes frost ferns spread, uncurling

fronds that bid summer good-bye.

Lost are the dreams of those swift days

like stubble tossed high in the warm haze

in times when we laughed and gave praise

to the sun that blazed bright from on high.

There must be an end to our weeping

For surely this cannot be the end.

Beyond the snow, life will be keeping

its promise to make whole and mend.

Fair will be fields in their rebirth;

Seed will awake in the warm earth;

Joyful the town in its spring mirth.

And our kiss shall be sweeter, my friend.