Splendour sleeps
In the thick still grey skies
Of a season's bleakness.
The steady muted glow of the sun,
Its sorry circle of gold
Highlighting the snow covered,
White-edged portrait
Of a winter's afternoon.
Inside the ashes of the fire
Burn red raw.
We talk
And your eyes dance
In patterns of pleasure before me.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Splendour sleeps
In the thick still grey skies
Of a season's bleakness.
The steady muted glow of the sun,
Its sorry circle of gold
Highlighting the snow covered,
White-edged portrait
Of a winter's afternoon.
Inside the ashes of the fire
Burn red raw.
We talk
And your eyes dance
In patterns of pleasure before me.
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