Wings of White

It often would come back to me
in dreams, of how we used to be;
they’d conjure up your face and smile,
your touch at kissing gate and stile,

where moon hung aimless o’er the hill
as we both shivered from the chill
of winter, and its sister, snow,
whose frosty fingers forced below

the temperature, till we would freeze.
Then breathe, with bitter breath, the breeze
of sorrow, sent on wings of white,
that turned our day dreams into night

and ushered in our silent time,
when hill we’d no more come to climb.
Disintegrated into dust,
we’d left behind, by breach of trust,

our dreams, of how we used to be
before we turned to fantasy;
both grieving ghosts, as light as air,
lamenting our lost love affair.