Winter Poem by Chris Zachariou

Camelot
cloaked in December mists,
shimmers on the distant hilltops.
I can see my footprints, cracked
and faint at its bolted gates.

This is her city now.
She dresses quietly, our eyes
never meet and Guinevere leaves
even before the door has closed.

I sit in silence late into the night
listening for her footsteps, but I know
the trains have stopped running.

In a panic, I run into my world
between the pencil and the page.
I write down all my memories,
some true, most imagined—
imagined memories are better
than no memories of her at all.

Snow is falling on the roof.
May's poems shiver on the page,
the garden spiders died in September
and the nights are drawing in.

Winter has arrived.