Of Birth and Death


Window to another world

where Narnia is freed at last,

where what the winter wind has hurled

can settle into Ice Age past.

Death to one sounds living knell,

 swan song’s notes to bury snow;

 Spring arises from its shell

as Winter sinks to grave below.


spruce branch

Wind froze your undercarriage,

the soft white skin of exposed belly

where armour cannot reach.

Low blow,

coming from an ally;

‘Et tu, Brute’

will be your swan song,

your dying dirge.