Winter in beaumont park

Autumn's departing breath does not disturb trees stolidly balanced on winter's tightrope. I see a robin red breast, heart on stilts, flit across snow lit branches. I walked with the moon unable to catch it's train which was elusive elevated high above me. Migrant seagulls who will find their way home, save an imprint of the winter moon. Acorns wait to be recovered by a squirrel experiencing memory's false echoes. Ticket to hide provided by Beaumont park to elude the multitude, under winter's sly ascent the rose is robbed of it's scent and furnished with a frosty beard. My senses are carried on the sun's rickshaw as they follow songs of the thrush, queued that tarry, until he detects and accords with the trees heartbeat, the thin heat has cured boughs of stagnant sleet, the bird has to act upon but cannot match the winds rough dialect discovering it has no tongue as it crashes against boughs. Red-wings forage to fuel their plumage, flowers cannot persuade rain to fall,they wait patiently for the return of their perfume.