As Water Seeps

19 12 2012

 

A maiden fair, with glittered hair, becomes the land again.
Beyond compare, this bitter lair, her frozen bog and fen.
The wastrel dies, when seen by eyes, unaccustomed, to the glow.
When winter nights, are harsh delights, with the snow bird, would I go.

Invading care, I’m flying there, less smog… where eagles fly.
Perhaps they’ll share, a thought or care, as idly… they pass by.
The Kestrel Flies, to summer skies, where sylvan standards stream.
The wastrel hides, with vacant eyes, that wither, whilst they gleam.

That golden fleece, of winters lease, upon the bog and fen,
gives release – a sense of peace – to a poets quill and pen.
A harsher hand, could not command, the grace that now she gives.
While Glittering Bands, of light now span, horizons of this sieve.

Streaming through, the frozen skies, etching steepled peaks aglow,
gleaming true, the colors scry, to the valleys down below.
Frozen fame.  Dances… plays… a colored, riband glory.
The poet’s lame.  He can’t explain… or begin to tell the story.

So I will stay.  And write.  And play…. amongst those starry bands.
Where tall spruce sway, in nights so fey… it’s a wonder they can stand.
The birch will wait, and not abate, the chill that drives in deep,
’till first stream breaks, then ponds and lakes, ever fill, as waters seep.

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