Image: © Deviant Art Bianca Masnikac, link here
Author: Kit Schofield
Winter is Coming
I feel its bite upon my face,
At first it merely nibbled my nose,
But now this hound begins to race,
Through all my spine, my head and toes.
The mountains are the first to fall,
The springs grow cold and cease to trickle,
We must retreat to fire and hall,
Escape this killer, oh so fickle.
As its chill extends to our home,
We hide inside our stone-made keeps,
This cold assassin continues to roam,
Surrounded! All around it creeps.
Our roses have long since faded,
The birds forgotten how to sing,
Our colourful trees appear so jaded,
It’s almost here. Winter’s coming.