It comes to this: a greyness like no other
under clouds uncanny as the mist.
And down below, the village church so small
its Sunday bells on Monday reach the crest.
And leafless trees descending to the river,
melting snowmen lined against the wall
where shelters stronger than your lack of faith
await the never-ending miracle.
And suddenly it burns a living gold
Friday, November 20, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: death