A Dusting of Snow
  
It seems so many Christmases ago now.
Almost looking back
through a white mist of snowflakes.
Like the ones I remember as a boy
In the Moorlands of England.
The world bright in festive color
A warm firelight in the old cottage.
From which I shall never move.
Her French accent
musical like tiny bells.
Such times are precious.
We should know this always.
Special and once lived memories.
It was so easy back then to accept
them as forever
Perhaps a right of passage.
The truth is the Gods
can give and take all they wish.
At times like this I can feel her
touching my cheek softly.
And if I close my eyes
She is there again.
Soft and sweet
Like a Christmas Angel.
White wings like the falling snow.
Now it is quiet in the old room.
The Christmas tree as beautiful
as any I remember back then.
On the gardens a light dusting
of snow reflecting starlight
on its purity of its whiteness.
I look at her photograph on the mantle
She was so astoundingly lovely.
I pick up the frame and place
my lips on her picture.
Feeling her lips
Beyond the cold glass.
Whispering softly
joyeux noël
ma petite fleur
(Happy Christmas
my little flower)