There is coldness

There is coldness

Blown down from the mountains

Leaking bleak times

Out of the holes

In its pockets

Thrown up at the door

In a worry

Of surprise

Depositing tumbledown

Crisp dried

First one, then two or three

Agitating, anxiously

Before pressing back

Into the corners

Too many to sweep away

Home for the waif and stray

As the wind rises

Golden flurries

Lifting like snowflakes

A maelstrom of

Winter channelled

Through the valley

A cold snap

Nipping at fingers

Nibbling red noses

A blizzard soon to follow

On its heels

A tempestuous tale

Of sorrow

Bleaching through the cracks

In my facade

Maybe tomorrow

A flower will bloom

There will be a softening

At the edges

Of darkness

The rage will fade

Into the after gloom

Fresh air, brushed clean

Of winter’s tail end

With barely a mumble

Of a story

Left to tell