Twirling ghosts wrapped, ethereal, around
Gothic spires, arabesque in silhouette
And piercing the ashen moonlight. She
Walked on misty stepping stones gleaming wet
With slippery pearls of burnished stones which
Whetted Her hungry appetite to sate
Need from Autumn’s demise. She stepped lightly
Round the orchids, admiring each new trait
Upon the bare branches which colour had
Once dominated. Bright, sharp crimson set
Against canvas of vivid emerald.
All this turned to deep magenta and let
Golden grandeur overtake the view. In
Time, this faded, and the trees stood cold and
Unadorned in their fashion. Winter put
Her cold feet in the bitter garden, and
Went about her work. She flitted lightly
Upon sprightly toes, from one cold wisp to
Another, each time stopping to lay the
Winter’s caress upon the crystal dew.
Deciphered by recitals of some old,
Sweet haunting musics which bathed the garden
In whim and wanton fantasies of a
Fetid conductor, while strange charms hardened
The ground, evasive worms beneath dug still
Deeper, seeking the embrace of warmth. Time,
Forever in divine servitude had
Aided Her work as She witch-touched sublime
Summer’s pride and diseased it with her smile.
Drear decay of July’s serenades still
Echoed about the place, sunken to dreams
Of failure and the Sun’s honour did spill
As its prominence upon the world slipped
Into bondage. Yet She was not assailed
By its crash, and spread her grin across the
Grounds about her. Sombre lots to till. Veiled
By abomination’s clawed hand, she danced
Around, clothing all in snow and new frost.
Yet the grounds were ringed with calm majesty,
Even through Winter’s assault, was not lost.
Grandeur survives at any squalid cost…