Winters Fingers

Decay caresses our senses,
wildly flirting,
dripping brown
from wilted stems
as growth stalls.
The last blooms are fading,
leaves are blankets falling,
and countrywide
we shudder
as winter calls.
For this is the time for death
to stalk the hedgerows,
his scythe hacks at
the confused sparks
there found,
he leaves the fallen to lie,
there awaiting the crows,
yet beauty is met,
if our gaze shifts
from the ground.
The reds and browns backlit
by a jelly orb,
or the fine morning dew
making the visible clear -
jewels glistening
on the finest of cords
as the hunter gathers
the last morsels this year.
And the smell, crisp with notes
of winters bark,
a smell to be savoured
as soon to be lost,
notes of dying alone
in the dank and the dark,
lost first to the rains
and then to the frosts.
Those crisp frosts that spur
the child within
to stamp on glass,
paper thin shards strewn,
to step out onto grass,
on it’s glistening skin,
leaving footprints as once
men did on the moon.
We plan the perfect Christmas
that can never be,
And contemplate a new life
come January
When from winter’s clutch we will
almost be free
But we fool ourselves, if by
differing degrees
At work winters effect on our
wits I see
For the hardest months are
yet to be.