Bleak

Bleak

In the hollow of a winter dawn,
the sky hangs heavy, a slate‑grey shroud,
while frost etches silent lace on windowpanes,
and the world holds its breath beneath a thin,
unforgiving light.

Fields lie fallow, their furrows cracked,
like old parchment forgotten in a drawer,
where the wind whispers through bare hedgerows,
carrying the scent of damp earth and distant smoke—
a reminder that even hope can grow thin.

Yet within this starkness, a quiet resolve stirs,
a stubborn ember glowing in the chest of the night,
waiting for the moment when the sun,
though weary, will dare to peek
through the veil and paint the horizon
with the faintest hint of colour.