Somber not Sad

A second on an icy breeze

A chill that fears no coat

A fading colour unafraid

Of its own transition floats

From the order of formed green

To the falling of bronze

The collecting whisper

Is the voice of the colder wind

North of the east and south of the west

Nothing turns bad

Culling life-magic, living no death

Is somber not sad

©Stephen Tanham