MEMORY OF SNOW
| A frost-tinge in the air at dawn, A pale icing upon the lawn, A prickle of cold at the nose-- And with each breath the thin fog grows. A geese echo from north to south, A taste of cold light in the mouth, A rosy blush for face and hands-- A stillness sliding 'cross the land. A darkness falling sooner still, A mark of white upon the hill, A glowing banner spans the skies-- And somewhere, far, a lone wolf cries. (1998) |
THE GOLDEN COMPASS
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