A Murder crowned the tops of trees

Winter bare as yet to leaf

Just lazy flew but one or two

And mild their raucous sombre

They eyed my eye's

As tasty morsel's

As I eyed theirs

Of Jet black portals

Feather gowned these shadow mortals

Thus paid heed gave token

A Yggdrasil seed

In Mossy purse

Touched blood stained red

From Blackthorns curse

To go about my way no worse

As I as living carrion

Away then Murder all but one

Who landed near

Took gift

Then gone

Though cousins of her came to clatter

And seven was their number

Of what I leant

I can not tell

As silent as a wishing well

Where midnight tolls a lonely bell

Beneath the water frozen

With feather of the black I write

A wing tip moment as the flight

Beyond our mortal lifes delight

Of harmony both dark and light

Without each other known as born

There is no dusk

There is no dawn

As murder crowns the trees once more

This spring to make their rookery.

With Heathery feet she wanders the trail

As yellow rich Gorse flower

Green ever prevail

A waking of Spring

Yet snow still in furrow

Her eyes are of loss

Her heart tender sorrow

She glances the Cobalt

Stark be the sky

Beautiful bountiful

Such that she cry's

And weeping she heals

Just a little inside

As Violet her namesake

A blossoms near by

For her for to pick

In her hair for to wear

And place neath her pillow

May love find her there

Dreaming yet woken

Amidst and as love

True worthy of her

And blessed from above

Below and within

Four quarters bow spoken

Thee be as my Spring

Sweet Violet

Thy token.

Black wick

Red Tip

Tall flame

A visiter on their way

Either flesh of either Fae

As shadows leap to flicker flame

That holds this cold dark night at bay

As I await a come what may

Will birds I hear on waking dawn

A tender sigh

A lovers yawn

Or shall I be but dead and gone

Away for evermore.

I can but dream and lost it seems I find her ever essence

And at this time perhaps she dreams as well?

Though I would but ever wish to wonder

I must not never pry or plunder

Though longing as a feather falls

Yet not to land but gather all

The wind once more beneath it's plight

Again as one as song in flight

I pray she tender somehow knows

Our love may be if but she blows

A gentle kiss upon the breeze

A feather falls for her to keep.

(Re-edited)

Just below the surface, and when I look in to the landscape of myself, sometimes I find a spring that seems to burble up from the bottom of a lost and lonely valley.

Here, within this realm it is moonlit grey, though perhaps it's just before the break of day upon a winter's morning, and perhaps the dawn is upon it's way.

I glance about; there are rocks that bare from the side of the hill with moss and lichens adorning them, and between them grow the occasional fern and other little plants whose names I do not know, and there is always the velvety moss that seems so wonderfully blanketed everywhere.

The trees stand tall upon the hillsides, they are not in leaf, but at rest it seems, and I haven’t seen a bird here, but I have heard them gently singing perhaps as if to welcome the dawn again to this lost little valley in the very essence of my being.

The ever spring water trickles quite aimlessly after it has risen, until whisperingly it becomes a little narrow stream.

Here, there are small fish that dart about in the cold water, seeking food, seeking safety, and seeking to welcome another spring, to mate, and to pass on their precious lives once more.

Perhaps I await as they, and perhaps it is spring within her winter sisters realm, dreaming amidst the mists that gather at the far end of the valley that I have glimpsed.

Yet I do not call out to her, as that I feel may be crass in some way.

Sometimes though, when I am not even here, I long most willingly to embrace her, to nurture and to be nurtured, and then as hand within a hand for us to follow the little stream in a new found togetherness, and to travel around the rivers many meanders through a summer's realm to where the river broadens, and all becomes autumnal.

Here golden leaves escort us on the river as we flow to meet the sea, where we are within a winter’s realm again, and where we may leave our final footprints upon the strangeness of snow along the beach as a gift to the changing of the ever tides.