Her Voice
a poem by Pete Marshall
Her voice now fades, her distant beat
that rides the mists of ancient time
where paths once weaved the spinners yarn
beyond the yews & creeping vines
Its cold again, these biting winds
that blow through gaps in wooden boards
that rattle bones in withered skin
then grasps at hearts with icy claws
The sparkles flow down hollow cheeks
as children wait, she stands alone
beneath the swaying , barren trees
where life is etched on hardened stone
Where hope is lost this winters eve
beyond the yews & creeping vines
on paths that lead where none will roam
bereft upon the mists of time
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A little poem and warm Christmas wishes to you all
image courtesy wikipedia
