Much is often said, of love,
But words are not enough;
That it blooms in spring
And is bold in summer
It’s plain for all to see.
But it is in the autumn of life,
If not withered by time,
That it truly shines.
And only on reaching winter
Does it reveal itself to be
More precious than gold.

Cold of winter



If only the cold wind would die down,
And I could be left free from the torment.

Cold, cold is the bitter winter month.
Dark, dark is its mood.

Howling and full of chill,
It speaks of concealing the warmth of the sun
And laying low, the once fertile land.
Devoid of character, all is white.

White, white is the blanket that covers everything.
Bright, bright is its reflection in the day.

Inviting and playful and yet suffocating.
Glistening though it might be in the sun,
In the dark of winter it is merciless and treacherous,
Offering little comfort to the unwary and unprepared.

Silent, silent is the winter as it spreads and freezes hearts and souls.
Death, Death is what it brings.

Buried from the nourishing light all must wither, sleep or perish.
No more to grow but to weep until the end of winter.
Drawing strength from the certainty that winter too will pass away.
And in its wake will come rebirth and light; the seed of life.



J M Lysun