Winters Shroud. - Poem by Robert Green
Winters mist rolled over the hill
Passing through the forested trees
Hauntingly, as a shroud
Moving slowly, no breeze
Winters creeping fingers
Cold and icy,
Like a flowing stream
Wraps around, cold and steely.
Natures drama unfolding
The mist still rolling
Looking to touch
To grip tightly, wisps spiralling.
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