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,
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,
Marking the end of the Quiet season.
In memory of Grandad Ken.