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| The kissing gates frozen and cold but inviting still the same. |
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| the path not yet trodden, the snow will make a secret of our passing soon enough, nature reclaims |
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| Boughs unbroken catch the whispered word, snow like fog makes softer our words and softer still our footfall |
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| as we walk on to the light at the end of the trodden way and to mullied wine and fires and candles bright in the window |
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| we have turned and headed home as we always must but not forgeting the friends we passed on the way, or the beauty of the day, the birds, the survivors the blessings and the light. |
