Ancient Loneliness Poem by Oliver Roberts

I watched him at the window,
gray hair peering at the dawn,
mimicking the morning frost,
his face cut like winter’s throat.

The house remained waiting there,
a stony path lead from it,
carrying the damp footsteps.
Trees filled the quiet garden
grasping closely to the cold,
black arms bearing the dead snow.

Empty birds’ nests whispered sky,
slowly disintegrating
as pieces reached for the wind,
skimming the watery sun.