Through heavy winter trees I wander,
Trapped within ice, warmed by snow,
And as I walk, I see far yonder,
A strange white wavering glow.
It stands upon my woodland way,
Is there, then gone, it will not stay.

I trudge along with weary walk,
Eyes half closed, dreaming of home,
My fingers, stiff as raven’s claws,
Forgotten artists in the storm.
The wind begins a mournful tune,
A sorrowful, murmuring croon.

There again in the swirling heave,
The flitting shadow dressed in white,
It’s shivering form must deceive
All those who see its ghostly sight.
I close my eyes, the vision fades,
I find myself no more afraid.

Caught beneath seething silver skies,
I halt right where the figure stood,
Around me still, I hear its cries,
And they ring through the snowy wood.
Yet when I turn toward the sound,
It echoes slyly all around.

I call out through the burdened boughs,
Lost in prisms of freezing glass,
The wind touches my furrowed brow,
With the gentle kiss of seasons past,
And I hear, in its whispered tongue,
Ghostly echoes of the shadow’s song.

It sings to me in a voice I know,
I have heard it countless times,
It whispers when the bright dawn glows,
Speaks at dusk when church bells chime,
And standing in these woods I see,
That I am it, and it is me.

© Francesca Tyer 2020

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