Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

-- R. Burns Epistle to a Young Friend

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Just For Fun

Maybe I can put up a real post up later.  

Winter Night

A touch of death
bone white
grave cold untold by firesides
of old brides as storm tides
surge with a pointed urge
from a moon on the verge

Quicksilver below the mark
and silent trees in the quickening dark
sign surrender on high vellum fog
falling off the log
their retreat complete
boots back to their roots
waiting underground to rebound
when the ally comes back around

Now, somewhere up there
hunter's hounds and sisters stare
unaware of my blind spot
but I will miss you when it's hot


John Lien said...

I liked it. I understood most of it -unlike most other poetry.

I've made up my mind to enjoy winter this year. It's a love hate relationship. Not sure I would be truly happy if I didn't have a winter to suffer through.

mushroom said...

It should be a restful season. I always feel more like hunting in winter. There are some good things about it.