Bluebird Song
The falling snow dots his peacoat
the hymn of the bluebells echo in the distance
sandpaper hands collide desperately
matching the rhythm of his heartbeat
pulsing around him
The last of the sun's soldiers
are beginning to retreat to their bases
their comrades come out of hiding
the ones who prefer the company of darkness
and take over the reigns of the vast battlefield
Trudging forward in the thick blanket
of crystallised white
his eyes adjust to the permeating mono saturation
where there were emeralds and sapphires
now lay the bleakness of dark blues and black
His footsteps neither propel him forwards or backwards
the veil of darkness surrounding him growing opaque
as body's fatigue hungrily feasts on the weariness of his soul
warmth is no longer his commodity,
his languid body bracing itself for an icy embrace,
his eyelids fluttering close
close
close
It is in the tightest crevices of reality
that he notices the faintest glow of withering hope
bathing the aged oak etched deep with curved lines
and the wilderness that stand guard on either side
with a touch so ethereal
it could be mistaken for wishful thinking
"I'm coming home"