Winter

Beneath decaying soil
in the dead leaf forest
lies a primitive man
of wicker and bough,
dormant save icy
tendrils of breath
that coil from a
root infested mouth.

Under cover of night
reeking of cold and winter
he rises from his woodland sett,
and draws down the gaudy moon
from the dark sky,
devouring it in a single mouthful.
Then raddled hands silver
the ivied tree trunks with frost,
like trails of giant snails.
Winter has come.

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