The White Hand of Time

Whispering death now moves in so stealthy,

Hard white in flow over field and function

The baton raised over fields so wealthy,

Turning red and brown to its compunction.

If all is safely gathered in, oh where

The danger now in remaining outside?

The answer comes soft in the freezing air,

Frost crackling and creeping, a web of spies.

November stands and greets mid-winter, so;

A sparkling open hand to dark old friend,

The fading cello sound of autumn’s bow

Failing before the creeping frozen trend.

Allies winning the cold war together,

Advancing the chilly season’s weather.