Winter has saved its keenest barb for the end,
cloaking intent with pewter overlay,
stalking its thin-skinned quarry with steely gaze,
pitiless as a blade cleaving flesh,
the teeth of a gale for a foundered ketch;
pouring scorn on tentative spring,
a sting in its tail.
Season s end
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110082503468
Свидетельство о публикации №110082503468
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