Resenting the light,
from the Olympian,
that warms my wool.
It cowards behind holly,
that grows in the pine grove.
Retreats to shaded cold,
below timber arms.
It is disgusted to the sight,
of white, yellow and orange.
Prefers the blue of night.
As it fades, flows and steeps.
It becomes clear,
pillaged of its white veneer.
Though, it carries forward,
like a grudge that won’t melt away.
Or is it more like love,
ever changing.
Or even as stubborn,
as a cold bedded love.
That brings life to you,
at least once a year.
But, in the end
it recedes.
Into the wood,
from under the holly.
Then waits,
until you’ve almost forgotten.