Bluebird Song

The falling snow dots his peacoat

the hymn of the bluebells echo in the distance

sandpaper hands collide desperately

matching the rhythm of his heartbeat

pulsing around him

The last of the sun's soldiers

are beginning to retreat to their bases

their comrades come out of hiding

the ones who prefer the company of darkness

and take over the reigns of the vast battlefield

Trudging forward in the thick blanket

of crystallised white

his eyes adjust to the permeating mono saturation

where there were emeralds and sapphires

now lay the bleakness of dark blues and black

His footsteps neither propel him forwards or backwards

the veil of darkness surrounding him growing opaque

as body's fatigue hungrily feasts on the weariness of his soul

warmth is no longer his commodity,

his languid body bracing itself for an icy embrace,

his eyelids fluttering close

It is in the tightest crevices of reality

that he notices the faintest glow of withering hope

bathing the aged oak etched deep with curved lines

and the wilderness that stand guard on either side

with a touch so ethereal

it could be mistaken for wishful thinking

"I'm coming home"