Thursday, 31 December 2015

2016


Too early to think of spring,
we can at least hope for crisp snow days,
for skies as dense and soft as cotton wool.
The old year sighs with relief,
puts up its feet: on the cusp of a hill
the sunlight shades into promises
and the silhouettes sharpen
across the overlooked, the too easily forgotten.


No comments:

Post a Comment