The withered gorse
gives a glint of her golden hue
amongst Winters cumular invitation,
whose ember leaves mire
neath  the creaking boughs.
The forge in the village
with its hard working blacksmith
presides by mornings emerald gown
of aconites blithely swaying in the churchyard.
The dormant headlands'
silent yearnings  jostles,
with the arcane wind ;
plying against the piebald sky,
whose tales refuse to ring hollow.

Indoors the ornamental grass  
within an oblong planter,
stares out dejectedly from its base.
My eyes convey cusping thoughts,
willing the blades to whither  -
singeing sideways,
forming yet another nexus
reminding me of Cerrice.

To see action through your Artillery,
your standing eyes betrays other emotions.
Longing to touch you
yet to see your through body,
form and no substance makes a stray bed of rest.
Craters of realisation  launch the chime.
What left have I,  having teased the lesion.

A crawling victim stands direction less, and having learnt,
I will disarm  your vague distractions.
According to lessons I call on regret and treasure its tears.
Surely past sufferers will empathise.
Mud and clay will wrap itself into an ointment
Then we can be reborn.

It was always from the same breath
you were called both ***** and hen.
The cue from on the hoof words jarring.
They wanted to curtail your pride
to wrestle ambition,
chide even your Soliloquy.

By the soak of the covert
all she wanted to was wash
the dust from her feet,
proceeding to use a pumice
she recognised the endless toil.

Submitting to the widening  silence,
her cochlea impressed -
the whisper of what it was to hear a stream,  
the disciple's quest - now her inner strength :
wading courage, sharpened focus
the weathered course, she longed to know.
Tally Crane ,Oak and bream
the amble of time proceeded
mindful her shawl swept
towards a larger cycle .

We spoke of our tomorrows
and whispered a paragon promise
as laminated truth,
never knowing any other texture
for all we had were our eyes
conveying this pledge
our gazes outshine - glowing,
we could never journey
on borrowed moonlight.

Winter's edge flurries -
snowflakes converge,
a carpet of fox scavenged litter
re-emerging like
iced puddles of hubris.

Whilst The Christmas message is relayed
Rebecca erects a humming line
to keep away the crows and parquets
from her prized cabbage and kale.
but the threadbare sound is
reminiscent of cymbals,
carrying thoughts of a lost carnival.

She journeyed to the coast
and caught an amateur performance of the
"Seven Deadly Sins", in and out of situ.
The deserted beach, ghostly 
yet littered with wicker creels
the fisherman their whispers silenced,
better console with tomorrow's wise
in hope of an  epiphany.

Her countenance,
had long given up the ghost
Twilight tried to allay the ravelling .
She needed resilience,
for those fiery Sunday visits  
endured by her confused Son.
Trumping by prevarication,
until no more, she retorted.
Her honeysuckle dreams
turn ramshackle.
Those plumes of bonfire smoke
before and the after, differ now
on contrite compost.