The White Cliffs

For as the roads

dispense themselves

over the white

cliffs of mist in the hills,

as it tubmles down

in hazy waves.

Cascading and breaking 

along the freeway 

-hazy shades of winter

to envelop the toothpick trees

and fields lying

fallow in the cold. 

In this whiteout of

wintry, there is the

deaf blanket of silence

lying thick,

stifling, across the 

naked plains, across

the brown and dying hills.

The winding roads throwing 

themselves into the ends.

The oblivion beyond the guard rail

as we would plummet into these 

stewing clouds lying serendipitous 

in the road salt messes.

We so willingly let go

as the trees merge with 

the sky- grey shifting shapes

without wind. 

There is nothing beyond

the pale hands of winter,

she holds us in 

quiet repose-

throws us off the cliffs

into misted hills.