Like death, her arrival is cold.
Cold from the northern depths of time.
A mist no man can ever hold,
But yet I know her love sublime.
Must my mate be face or form, Or might she come on winter’s breath? To be where hearts are bound and warm, And bide with me until my death.
Eternal life, a widow’s shield Against the day my passions die. She’ll plummet ‘cross time’s frozen field To love another such as I.
Kemo D. 7Poem by Michael A Gibbs