Winter

Season of shades and solitudes,
Of shafts of pale left-over light;
With days that are mere interludes
In the grand theme of night.

Where have you packed the
promises of spring,
All summer’s loud and colourful
parade,
All that flight of fancy on the wing;
All that wanton willingness to be laid?

The Indian princess of autumn’s
exaltation
You have fashioned into a reed:
To pipe up your dirge of
lamentation
For all that mankind has ever decreed.

Yet I love you winter – cold, steadfast to duty:
A true affair that has endured past passion’s beauty.