Snow songs gather

Cleansing air turned


hanging from a street light,

Father, passes and stops by the trail,

Offering his prayer

To the night,

An old train carriage

Flummoxed in the yard ‘Neath a York stone bridge,

I hear her
Ghostly inhabitants, 

Laughing, as they pass;

Once full of life, now just a whisper.
Father tightens his coat and

Lifts his woollen collar, 

Inwardly he knows,

There is no cure,
Midwinters moon drags

her reflection

Across broken shadows,

Like a dying

Sleeps strange prism,

Devours the sun,

Reflecting all truth and reason
As beautiful and inaudible 

as Gods sweet whisper. ©DMM 

#inspirational_photograph by @iena70


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