There is a hint of storm upon the breeze;

a ring-around-the-rosy made of leaves.

A gentle kiss from Jack Frost on the land

and at my sides my lovers stroll,

each hand-in-hand-in-hand.

Beyond the path, where green grass meets gray sky

exists a place reluctant songbirds fly

into the setting sun, and lovers part.

Reality and sadness cast a pall upon the heart.

Such silence hanging shapeless in the air;

so much to say yet neither of us dare

disturb the solace of this final hour;

and so we taste the honey

while we let the milk go sour.

© Karen Godson