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As we talk apples drop from the trees outside,
Worms feast on the fallen glories.
As we talk grey clouds fist up in the sky,
Birds return to their nests.
As we talk the spiders fiddle to strengthen their webs,
Then sit directly watching, waiting.
Winter whips around,
It whips those worms into the hard ground,
Those birds from the sky,
That spider from its web.
It whips around the valley and shuts our door.
We sit among these four grey walls and shut out
The hard and sharp wind.
We sit curtains drawn, knees drawn,
In a state of stillness.
The smell of mud and ash rise up from the floorboards
As I shut the pages of a stained book and
Reach for you.
