The Winter Sun

a delicate whisper brushes ever so lightly the raw shivering antlers of the warrantable hart.

the land sinks away under a sombre blanket of mute desolation, where spindly figures lumber about in a saturnine procession along the shores of perdurable twilight, sussurations wax to a sensuous, elegiac fugue to favourably entreat the kingdom's plight.

a demure sigh escapes from chapped bloodless lips belonging to a weathered husk of a
man, whose still youthful heart courts the memory of bodeful veneries down deep cut corries
and gullies. pellucid runnels filled with the roseate caress of his tears debouch into the bitterly raging waters of the hiemal sea.

long since bound by necrotic arteries that besmeared the mother star in the womb of the unrelenting nightfall, she fades out prim and lento from her bounds of sopor, roused by the first shrill warbling sonatina of the diminutive wren, to flutter aloft to her rightful throne enwreathed by an embankment of laggard but gilted clouds and the abiding, fallow earth, agog for her anointing nectar that quickens the swaddling void into a viridescent arras.






Comments

Anonymous said…
Hauntingly beautiful midwinter imagery. Quite pagan in flavour too. Which is fitting. The sun is older than all of us, and a definitely welcome return in the dark days of the year.

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