Thursday, January 28, 2016
The Winter Has Come
My stain is in four colours,
Though above the hearth is alive,
Below the strains and stresses keep.
The frosted tilting dreams are beams
Of timber broken by the night kneeling.
For the stain is incredible on winter.
We found a farce in full shadow,
Aside it considered a singing brother
Lonely with his park and square.
The wintery sounds menaced creation,
But grunting succeeded the sounds of
Might and reason from leaves of life.
My stain grows musically, like a fountain
Spelt by the friars, stressing a feather
To grow around the dusted tome so broken.
Topic(s) of this poem: winters