Beneath the Southern Cross

Echo in the stillness
of a frozen winter's night
stars cast down upon me
in the absence of the light
my breath is running cold
before my very eyes
and I witness winter's waning
as the spring comes into sight

though the buds and flowers stir
in the chill that hovers so
the mountain lay encrusted
by the grip of fallen snow
the fire fades to embers
in a softly glowing room
and a stillness hangs about me
beneath a falling moon

smoke trails off into the heavens
from atop the chimney roof
the bushes stir and stare
thou their owner hides aloof
winter's presence hangs in layers
like a slowly creeping moss
clinging to a sleepy country
beneath the Southern Cross.

©2004 by Mike Bogle -- All Rights Reserved