greyscale morning
the shroud
of the sky
hangs low
bare branches
twist with
sinister intent
thorny tendrils
pricking the
ghastly gloom
like the spindle
of some
timeless wheel
cursed bush
a knot of
beastly
brambles
it is only
when I risk
the dread
approach
that my wintry
gaze softens
and barbs
morph
silently
oh to be
astonished
again
by the
simple fact
of spring
