I hear them, their cold whispers, weaving through midnight
feel slumber, ebb and recede, beneath the strawberry moon.
Oh! what lies amidst the shadows of lone and desolate trees,
I tremble, but bow not to the savage breeze.
I witness, despair dappled grey moan as one sheds its leaves,
as though crimson blood, that spills from the warrior’s blade.
I caught, then sprinkles of hope, when emerged, white dawn
and step out as pigeons spiraled into the air.
‘The strongest of us blossom in most exposed situations.’
Photo credits: Karin Gustafson
Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads