Speak soft as a hiss of mountain air,
Cloak yourself in midnight.
Lay bone white fingers upon the ground,
You are the one who weaves a net of crystal,
Cast your spells of sleep upon this chilled earth.
For you are winter.
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.