The wind blows cold here,
Setting the ruins to a lonely moaning.
A tower falls, drawn back into the forgetful earth slowly,
Yellow grasses clinging, climbing the grey stones,
Older than old, desolate watchpost to the sky.
These wild lands; this empty stillness
So breathless under unseen eyes.
They lie in waiting
Beneath these ragged, windswept trees.
Cold and unseen, as ancient bones within a burial mound
Lie covered by thatch and mouldered leaves.
Gracious autumn has turned ice-deadened,
Sodden leaf-drifts no sounds make,
Only the still movements of the dead.
In setting, pulling down
The last shredded remnants of peace.
Shivering innocence curls around its impotent fire,
Willing small flags of light to protect.
Another flame, cold, smoulders near.
Black is the night beyond the hollow;
Black the dell beneath