Quiet Season

Quiet Season

The air is crisp in the quiet season,

Frowns sitting like maps on pale foreheads,

Withering flowers. Limp on cold stone,

Maybe marble-grey or black.

 

Quite souls ponder silent hearts,

A gathering.

Snowflakes knit a blanket of healing

Upon the bed of those who are silent,

A reminder of soft memories.

 

Snowdrops- soon to wilt with the melting season.

Marking a passing,

To remember.

Marking the end of the Quiet season.

 

 

-Emma Cunningham

In memory of Grandad Ken.

 

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