The mountains echo to the
drumbeats call, the forests
ring with their rhythmic fall,
the birds rise into the frost
laden winds, the ground shakes
beneath the call...

When walking the twisting,
winding trails, of the wood
in that time of frost and fire,
I sometimes forget the hours,
and the minutes, and the days,
and wish I could go walking,
till the end of the ways.


I love to see the fire of the
twisted autumn leaves,
left behind in silence, now
all encased in frost.


And yet I love it most of
all, when walking in the
woods, when dawn is finally
breaking, and the night
wind finally stills. I love
to see the tree limbs, and the
twiglings, and the leaves, all
shining in glorious wintry
splendor, for noone, but for me.

I rise, slowly, in the grey morning
light. I raise my eyes, and seeking,
sought; the grey light of dawn,
filters down, between the eaves.

Dressing, clad in the days grey skin,
I step down the covered stairs, soft
as a whisper, born upon the breeze,
for the fear of detection, and the desire
to be gone.

Opening the sighing door, I pause, and
turn, hand still grasping the reluctant
handle, as I see her, beautiful, in her night
gown, her black hair streaming, her eyes,
rimmed with red.

She looks at me, and there is nothing in her
eyes, but sadness, regret, and resignation. She
turns away, and I leave, closing the door
behind me.

I drive to work, sitting behind the wheel,
the grey sky empty, and the black road
full. I look to my right, to my left, and
behind. Everywhere I look, I see the same.
Black suit, grey tie, short-cut hair, and
empty eyes.

I close mine. Open them. The world seems
no different; no change meets my gaze.
only cars and commuters, going forward to
slave.

I look down, up again. My hand reaches, finds
the cold, smooth handle. I raise it. My eyes
close. I think of her, my wife, as the cold end
of the long dull rod touches my temple. A tear
wells slowly in my eye, to fall, softly along my
face. I don't brush it away.

My fingers tremble. They don't know their duty.
My hands shake, as tear follows tear, drifting slowly,
down the lines of my face, careworn, in the line of
pointless duty. My fingers steady, my hands grow still.
It is the breaking point..my mind is blank, as I pull
the trigger...red roses fill my head, as I fall, forward
against the wheel, and the world goes dark.

Rain,
falling softly,
from clouds
the soft sheen
of shimmering pearls,
grey in the dawns
fledgling light,
falls to bring the
breath of life to
the parched soil,
and cleanse the earth,
in its gentle caress,
as it flows on, down,
until at last it ceases;
the clouds break apart,
slowly drifting, away into
the great blue expanse
of the sky, and the sun
breaks through,
in all its shining
glory.

Warm,
huddled
close to the
hearth.
Hiding,
from the
cold
bite of
Winter;
snow's on the
horizon.


Wind,
sighing,
out in the
bitter chill,
of a cold
Winters night,
all decked in
frost.



Snowflakes,
softly falling,
to brush the
frost-hard
ground, soft
as a kiss,
feather-light;
mark of
departed
love.


Silence,
a weight
of silent
sound;
moths
wings,
fluttering
in the
dark.
Such a
weight
of
silent
sound,
outside
in the
dark.


I curl here,
crouched
beside the
crackling
hearth;
outside the
wind is
blowing,
whistling
through
the trees,
barren
branches
clacking
in the
wintry
breeze.


And I sleep.

The winter snow falls,
in a gentle shifting mass,
flakes drifting, cold kisses
of passing frost, to blanket
the ground in ice and silence.

The wind is idle, the land
is calm, the frost content
to spread and grow, to
weight the ancient trees
with snow.

I sit here in the winter chill
breath frosting out into the
silence. I look out over those
sleeping trees, buried under
weight of snow, and I smiled,
and slept, and the world was
content.

The waves lapped the shore
of those gently rolling hills
of sand, stretching out to the
far horizon. Gulls circled,
high above me, their plaintive
calls reflective, of the grey of
the morning, and the grey of
my heart.