The Winter Run

There is a far horizon
Sharp-edged
And high
Where the trees are etched
Black onto a china sky
And fields are scored
With the mark of the plough
As Winter begins to bore 
Into their wood 
Their leaves sloughed-
Off by a high wild wind -
Cold fingers stravaiging 
Out of the North 
Not sent to appease but 
To force our hearts with frost
To subdue us 
With the loss of the sun
On their annual, cruel
Winter run.

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