Fingers of wood shaking, the last leaves have sailed,
squally weather causes the wood to wail.
Darkness surrounds, devouring the twilight,
the lone path illuminated by the orb of the night.
A creature of fragility, blown by the breeze,
its eyes widen at the fear, for fear causes a freeze.
No timber stands here, it is a looming troop of men,
ready to encapsulate as part of the winter wren.
Illness is overwhelming, wallowing and aimless,
life and the wind become still and timeless.
The creature sobs loud, two eyes come into sight,
both are blazing the shine of lazurite.
The fern shivers, the little soul turns back,
followed in turn by the silver grey pack.
Gasping for life, clawing through the roots and growth,
down by the leaves, running are both.
Our little one stumbles, tumbling without guidance,
gallops approach, silence.
Lone tears drip down, turning to scarlet,
the one who walked astray, the little boy Marlett.