Scattered patches of broken clouds direct sight to the celestial body of gold. Not whole, three quarter perhaps with rays discolouring the surrounding vapour. Scents of a familar flower lingers within the haze.
Chilly showers - chilly winds; rustling leaves colliding. Grass stems sway to the rhythmic hymns of winter night. Verses added from the crowing of a lost blackbird - to the whimpers of an owl.
Sounds uncertain, faintly travel from nearby wetlands. Wondering if a spiecie undiscovered is crawling on the waterbed, brushing the roots of the water trees - voicing its own seasonal hymn.
A winter night rekindling winter moments of old. Seasons when youth saw mystery and romance in winters musical notes. Untouched by death, unwetted by the tears of loss. Seeking another to play.
To have found one. One thrilled by dances in the mist. Hand in gentle hand circularly swaying, as glimpes of sparkling silver, reflected off her long dark hair. The bitter cold served only to heighten the sensations of her life.
Only to be gone, taken too soon. Leaving now only a matured being clinging to the sorrow of yore. Whom standing above the unforgiving soil; in front of a stone - a monument of old. To Grace, my beloved of old.
The engraved letters faded through time; dates of birth and passing eroded. Muddish brushes and green overgrowth leave only one line. Bold in times new roman; Here Lyeth Below is Grace and Grace alone.
The years through some unhappy sculptors have dented this tribute; this temple of my love. Who could not have known the once vibrant life and adorer of time; now lying deep in the earth.
Fingers growing numb, tender nose and breath heavier. Returning the white frost from whence it came. Rare free skies closing, threatening storm to hail. Soften mud creaping in moisture with each step. In each mournful step, away from Grace.