The pond with the swans is cold and quiet
but the swans are gone;
leaves once lush and green
rustle now in the north wind brown, burgundy, gold
a sky pressing down allowing no sunlight
but a few stray beams at the end of the day
shortened by the tilt of the Earth toward winter
so it seems lifeless and sterile, unwelcoming
affronting the visitor with a breeze too cold for beaches
I pull my coat close around me, hunching down
the sun lowers, the air turns violet and dim
all memory of love, of warmth, of pleasure, is locked away
for the siege; I shall not be here again,
shall not witness the creeping encroachment of winter
the shuttered windows
the bare trees
the bleak days
the solitary crow winging over the water, silent and cold
I am the water, silent and cold
but no one knows the depths
not even the swans
Copyright 2010 by Margery Larch