Caves
There’s no doubt,
it’s December,
in the North,
a cave
of darkness,
hidden,
the skies,
blinded
the stars,
cover their faces,
in shrouds
of mists,
invisible hands,
from an earthly
view,
and below,
far below,
in the folds
and valleys,
the sinks
and rises,
of fields,
forests,
rooftops,
walls,
shadows
of gardens,
time strikes
in distant bells,
chiming,
the days
across
slumbering
lives,
as dawn
slips between
the morning
skies
anew.
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p1964km@googlemail.com
