Wind Whistles Its Unscored Requiems

That sullen beauty
Of trees
Shaped by the merciless west wind
Leafless and cold

Their lament
Is their eternal torment
Agonies of salt spray
Scarred twisted forms

Melancholia in spartan silhouette
Cold, wind burnt
Every colour a hue of grey
Gathering another grey, all of its own

And the sky
Only more of the same, yet more
A tragic northern winter
Bitter to the eye

It has a singular cold
Only itself may know
Whistling to the edge of a frost
That will not warm enough to freeze

Within the sadness of those scenes
People lend their weariness of spirit
It becomes so apparent, that neither gender
May claim to understand more than the other

Sadness woven of its own momentous desolation
That perfect tweed of restrained misery
Worn threadbare by clagging uncertainty
And that deep grey; inevitable certainty, of knowing

Original Thoughts by
© A. L. Schers 2017

Skeletal Tree photograph by Meirion Matthias

This write was inspired by personal memories and the poem 'Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines' by Pablo Neruda

#ExposurePrompt Thank you +Betania Mía​​ for posting this lovely prompt...:-) 
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