Against the freeze, absent from bonfire night,
As even owls and sparrows huddle close,
And pull their feathers tight in winter's plight.
The bison amble; shake in icy throes.
The silent heavens, opal black at rest,
Beneath the moon, on winter's longest night,
Away from parts of town in merry fest,
Fluttering candle, quiet drink in sight.
In silent, sleepy town with slanted roofs
Behind the glass of ale, he drowns himself,
His frosty breath like pious censer poofs,
That rises heavens ward; away from help.
Awaiting midnight bell, he tightens wool,
And hears the dogs at moon and winter howl,
The slates, a creak, beneath the snowfall full,
As window carries gleeful hoots of owl.
Across from dwindling candle, shaky flame,
Like trembling hands, their skin so cracked and thin,
His restless eyes that slip in hiding shame
And soft his murmurs, whispers holy hymn.
In empty tavern, far from merry hearth,
He rises up the chair to fill his mug,
The keg as drips some ale, like tears from north,
Like twinkling butterfly, a languid song.
A dream so swirls before his open eyes,
About a lass, a moonlight pale her sight,
And deep like ocean, kohl adorns the eyes,
Her hair like raven feathers, dark like night.
He drinks the ale to warm his ancient bones
And choke his dream, and guilt in single stroke,
Like beadsman kept awake by sinner's don,
At midnight chime, he slips out, cold in cloak.
He gauges ice through half a pallid eye,
While thumbing beard and thirty beaded pearls,
And spies through wooden walls, a mother's sigh,
The icy mud through moonlight rainbow swirls.
Through dingy alley, smelling drunk and old,
He stumbles towards open graveyard gates,
To blooms of spring ornate in iron cold,
His dearest Margret's grave, in snow she waits.
Uneven cobblestones, they try to trip,
Between the headstones full of cracks and moss,
While frozen ice from weeping statues drip,
As wilted blossoms reek of mournful loss.
He walks among the silent weathered tombs,
And pulls the cloak to ward the bitter cold,
The ravens linger, grooming blackest plume,
Alone he treads, his footsteps lost and snowed.
The tender snow on hair like feather blow,
That hides in whites of ages bygone far,
With almost loving hands, he shifts the snow,
And lays the rose, carnation blooms like scars.
The marble angels, bright like cornice carved
And granite gargoyles, black of moonless nights,
From corners snarl and glare, for woe his starved,
As yew so looms on side like sentry knight.
Pretending not to share his gloom around,
He lays the softest kiss on Margret's stone,
The windless night, a shawl of stillness round,
To choke away his tears—like petals, blown.
"O Margret! thirty years have flown away,
Yet each and every breath has bled torment,
The sunlight lost its warmth, within a day,
Without your sight, the grace of moonlight's spent.
O Margret, I wasn't there, at your side,
Your last and final breath, without me slipped,
My Margret, I am sorry, I did hide,
For how was I to watch your light be nipped.
Dear Margret! hear my bones so creaky old,
My lovely lass, with sweet and argent heart,
Dear lady, I am weary, hurt and cold,
So, take me; give me warmth; my soul restart."
A wind then stirs and sings a song afar,
Without a word, his Margret hums a tune,
He listens long in quiet; eyes the star,
The one that shows him mercy, not too soon.
As dawn through deepest darkness rises up,
The ancient man, his head he lays to rest,
On Margret's tomb, a ghostly lap, on cusp,
And 'morrow, whisper men, "No beat at breast!"
