At night a call, waking, dreaming,
sleeping and that stamp of reverie.
Winter comes once again bringing
sleep to misty hills.
There is no fire to warm us
only the sun, in tangible golden
hues of oranges and a wind
to mesmerize (the cold)
and pedestrians like us
who walk on a tightrope to unleash
the year's advent.
Stomping of horses, the carts
walk on heavy spaces of tiime
as hills grow weary of death
and denuded trees. Rippling of streams
are takeaways. In an arc, the hawk
sweeps in a flight of fancy.
And the crow goes hopping mad.
Childhood is dream of your tresses
and eyes that peered through windows
as we chased shadows,
the hills receded into oblivion.
This winter, the past stares
as we measure time in an hourglass
that unleashes pallid colour.
