The beast ambles,
Slowly
Against the face of the cold,
Encroaching
Winter.
He pauses,
milky eyes turned upwards,
two pools of white
in which a pale,
smoldering
sky can be seen, reflected
like narcissist unto photo behind glassy frame.
He turns back,
Away from the cold,
And the howling, ashen sky
Towards home,
And orchard of writhing, wild apple.
Inside, it is warm.
He will wait out the winter,
perched in patched armchair,
ambling the slender halls,
wearing thin the lacquer,
on what may have once been
Glossy,
Youthful,
timber floor -
Growing fat off the fruit of autumn.