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
