When the Crest Falls

I've seen how the mournful beauty of final moments of autumn succumb to the numbing winds of winter; cruel snow unrelenting in its denial of even the simplest of memories. I know how meandering rivers run dry, these messengers of renewal betraying their thirsty recipients. I have heard of the devastated mother of a screaming toddler trapped beneath the rubble at a street corner in Hiroshima; the rancid flavour of fear drowning a vow of love that should never have been uttered, lest it be severed. I've lived and breathed the caress of a shadow above the clouds, but have come to realise the tragedy of speaking too much and hearing too little. I have memorised the colours of the rainbow, and held my palette against the sky, only to spin my wheel and discover that there is afterall nothing but silent whiteness. I have composed a mosaic of your face in my mind, all through my favourite valleys and wastelands, yet I know that all treasures I behold shall race towards the horizon, and vanish before my time, when the Sun begins to shine again.