WINTER

Winter whistles as he walks by
Watches me shiver
Tries in vain to hide a smile
Steady as snow, rigid as the cold
which touches your bones.

He turns his nose up at me though.
I'm still bleeding Autumn colours.
Tiny dying leaves slide down my cheeks
from the corners of my eyes
Leaving trails of yellow, orange and gold
Shades which make my face seem older than it is.

He's always been one to leave me alone in the bitter -
I'm fond of summer but she's too sore a loser.
She's also a terrible pickpocket.

Winter is a gardner.
Tending the grounds at dusk when people have gone home
Tenderly looking after the plants lining the paths.
Thoughtfully sprinkling water on all the flowers
people have left on the graves.

He too is a thief - but a different sort
A more sinister one.
He keeps the flowers he likes best.
Takes them home with him and
assembles them into haphazard bouquets.
Leaving them to slowly wither away by
his bedroom window instead of
lying as a forlorn token of love on a grave.

Which is worse; to steal from the dead or make light of the dying?