barry coleridge

The cold autumn winds cannot reunite leaves with trees-the robins rain enraptured eyes and wind waltzed wings tempt caged tears that grieve. A widow plants flowers-her old man lies ready to caress the contours of a rose, his fingers are phantoms too frail to grip a swaying rose as the cemetery gates close and with newly found notes the robin slips into a rhapsody. Fingers rove across thorns, a flower soothed into stillness a wifes haunted heart made still by the loss of harking for the music of madness. Under red winter skies a robin bathes snow falls from thorns below ice captured graves.