Like a ribbon that's spun
Of the purest of silk,
The road crossed the cold bleak dale
It appeared that the frost
On the wintry panes
Was embossed with images from beyond the pale
And the winter-sky,
Lit with the moon and the stars,
Made the icicles glow in the night-
And the beauty of all
Of that December view
Was perceived in the essence of light-
And deceived by the soft...firelight.

Comments
camilla | January 4, 2011 - 07:31
Last time I spent time on the site your poems were rhyming and funny and prolific. You seem to have moved on to a different type of poem with some very lovely images and internal rhymes.
"Was perceived in the essence of light-
And deceived by the soft...firelight."
Very nice
I do hope your poem that seemed to be from an ill or dying person did not reflect a worry about your own health.
Biggus | January 4, 2011 - 08:57
Thanks Camilla, I still do the funny stuff as well.
and apart from flu I'm fine
Paul