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