But Kora sat unmoving, in great magic.
The walls, her home, faded about her. Warmth
went; all alone and on a freezing plain,
dressed in a tunic, sharp knife in her belt,
bow on her shoulder, arrows in a quiver
behind. Her eyes gleamed; a pale cold light,
ˈlɪmpɪd ɪn ˈdʌlnəs

She looked around. Away, at vision’s limit,
a dark shape rose above the plain: a Tower,
the only thing in all this barren place:
no bird flew, no grass grew. Despite the wool
she shivered. Breath-clouds hung in the raw air,
ˈsləʊli dɪˈzɒlvɪŋ

Then in eye’s corner something moved. She turned
to gaze across the Waste and saw a Cloud.
Far, almost straight behind her as she faced
the Tower, it too reared up black and sheer.
Unlike the Tower, moving, whirling, wisps
trailing their tentacles around a core,
ˈtwɪstɪŋ ɪnˈseɪnli

The beginning of 'The Songstone" https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/174533

The bird of Spring has flown away. Long south
her feathers trail, forgetting cool wind song
and coos of happiness. And why's she wrong
to soar above my love with scattered youth?
Another bird is nesting in cold groups
on Scotland’s shore, her plumage bright and long;
enamoured of her shrilling calls among
exhaling frosty nights and twisting swoops.
I, who have seen so many flocks that made
the fleeting joy trill, still am sad to know
they're gone, perhaps never to return again
or if they do perhaps changed, with wings outsplayed
to other mates, with other rhymes to show
that catch the dry wind’s struggle on the plain