The barren greyscale fingers
Of the cloud-raking treebones
Rattle like an empty ribcage
In the dessicating winter wind.
The land they grow in,
Void of colour,
Void of light,
Remains covered in sprawls of snow and frost
And voidful fissures of blizzard-bitten ache.
*** For when winter doesn’t feel so pretty and lightlike, and is more grey than white. ***