Winter Leaves

Anchor:

As seen in the day of West gone by, Wild

When smoke was the language, the voice

Upwards they would spiral, those words from a child

Or tribesman, or warrior, their choice

This was then their way, and hidden to most

Outsiders, they read n'er it's thought

This was then their anchor, their word of the ghost

For battle and wars when once fought.

Backlit on Blue:

Shoot into the sun and capture the shade

Post process next in that dark blue

Enhance for the colours, their presence they've made

Slight sharpen, job's done, adieu.

Bleedin' Blades:

Winters' Woes, some Bleed, in Prose

Perilous Propellers:

Where others left, yet hold they on, These stragglers, left behind
The friendship circle, broken, gone, The winter has been kind.

Decay:

With form deformed and toll being took, And natures path, led way
The remnants of what once had look, Now dangles in decay.

Twisted Torture:

A cry for help, a last ditch made, Attempt to reach the skies
Alas, too late, soon good-bye bade, One more of Winters' cries

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Desolation:

A barren twig, a branch now light, It's weight robbed by the sun
And dry, and heat, and nature's plight, Left standing, none, but one

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Delicate Danglers:

Off-set against a carpet green, And veils of white, so bland
A last ditch effort can be seen, For pride to take it's stand

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Winters' Woes of 2007

In Winter time, when voids exist, Of colour, life mundane,
The macro lens, it does persist, To render yet, t' inane.

In Erect Defect, the poor stand proud, A Splash of greens persist.
It shouts it's fame, and does quite loud, While others hence, resist.

The Ghosts of Summers Past all dance, To song of hues, await
They fade into the distance, trance, And wait upon their fate.

The Colour Void, it bears no soul, No witness of it's prey.
Suspended sport, the patient hole, They wait for such fine day.

The promise of new life, prevails, In Ochre Ovaries.
And as it's been, it never fails, Nature ne'er to "freeze".

Our Spiral Spawns, upward it goes, It looks toward it's right.
At reach of end, upon tip toes, It one day flourish, might.

In Chroma Creep, amidst it's dull, and lifeless carpet holds.
A pose so grand, of untold wealth, Inherent beaut', unfolds.

The Kiss of Green, it sends the thought, To those that are behind.
Of promise, colour, all not nought, One day they will have shined.