The withered gorse
gives a glint of her golden hue
amongst Winters cumular invitation,
whose ember leaves mire
neath  the creaking boughs.
The forge in the village
with its hard working blacksmith
presides by mornings emerald gown
of aconites blithely swaying in the churchyard.
The dormant headlands'
silent yearnings  jostles,
with the arcane wind ;
plying against the piebald sky,
whose tales refuse to ring hollow.