I turn my face to the light
But the low winter sun
Is shrouded in unmoving clouds
Offering no warmth at all
The trees are stark and naked
Like jagged skeletons
With ragged crows hovering
And the world is breathless

For this winter
This of all winters
The air is crowded and heavy
With the ghosts of the painful dead
Their accusing eyes searching
For those whose negligence
In the blast of a plague
Caused their breathless deaths

                                         By Phil Roberts