This dingled dell I fear has lost it's choke and now rime scours the brook where careless laps washed away the summers dust, and over bright yet low and glancing pierced, the nebulous sun still warms this heart this aching cold snap of a day.
We hear yet the chortles gone of summers warm embrace, and of it's own, this place still holds a soul rapt, though crispy cold can slither sylph into the blood, and marrow chills at waters beach, and piscine ripples have an edge, arete and firm.
Warm bubbles yield to stark and fresh, brown pebbles edged in white, to pale in shadowed depth, and a finger strayed, will taste the bite, and close abrupt those pores, while wiley yet that foxy trout, ignores a persons glare and swims, and glides, slippers to the pile.
Blackened fray where was our fire, and edging burnt the grass, circled careful so, by crumbled jack frost rocks a little strewn, no doubt by badger upon a quest, a dimpsey forage mayhap. Though where stood the trees whose bowers wept and teared upon green grass, stands there still a mighty bole, empty spaces poking through, vibrant leaf a memory now, scratchings in the bark, mute tale of Buntys fall and all our scrambled zest.
Where the ground we sat in awe, and heard those tales back then, I still see to where it fell, his tear I could not stop, and the tale he told stays with, like a charcoal lump inside my throat, and an aching in my heart, that man his story and how he fared back then.
Soon to Christmas then, and once more peopled dell, maybe snow will grace us well, the chestnuts glowing in our hands and gifts we pass around with yelps of glee and sometimes a stolen kiss, though the victim cares not much and cook creates the feast.
Lizzie xx