There is lust in the eyes of the seasons as each take their turn. The rolling fields of green to turn to purest white in time, and then in turn to baron brown to sprout in green again. Continue reading “A breeze.”
Under stars of frozen light, careless to dark beneath them. Subject to winds which chill the bone and keep any warmth at bay. One huddles with who and what they have to escape the bite of ice. Continue reading “The blaze.”
Never has there been before or since that dream of mine, a face or life worth following to the hells of oblivion and beyond. Continue reading “A march.”
These fields stood empty in the winter. A vast swathe of land covered in nought but snow whilst surrounded by the evergreens whose colors peeked out from under blankets of white. Continue reading “Cycles.”
Upon the lands of forebears where farms and forests are, so many lives would toil and hunt beneath sun and countless stars, to all who would come after them that land would be a gift, and knowing well their place it was that there would be no rift.