Through heavy winter trees I wander, Trapped within ice, warmed by snow, And as I walk, I see far yonder, A strange white wavering glow. It stands upon my woodland way, Is there, then gone, it will not stay.
I trudge along with weary walk, Eyes half closed, dreaming of home, My fingers, stiff as raven’s claws, Forgotten artists in the storm. The wind begins a mournful tune, A sorrowful, murmuring croon.
There again in the swirling heave, The flitting shadow dressed in white, It’s shivering form must deceive All those who see its ghostly sight. I close my eyes, the vision fades, I find myself no more afraid.
Caught beneath seething silver skies, I halt right where the figure stood, Around me still, I hear its cries, And they ring through the snowy wood. Yet when I turn toward the sound, It echoes slyly all around.
I call out through the burdened boughs, Lost in prisms of freezing glass, The wind touches my furrowed brow, With the gentle kiss of seasons past, And I hear, in its whispered tongue, Ghostly echoes of the shadow’s song.
It sings to me in a voice I know, I have heard it countless times, It whispers when the bright dawn glows, Speaks at dusk when church bells chime, And standing in these woods I see, That I am it, and it is me.
© Francesca Tyer 2020
コメント