Barren hills and railway tracks
Unite isolated villages
Threatened by the cold hand of winter,
Bare branches overhead,
Leaves rustle underfoot.
Night approaches in a fleecy cloak of fog,
Dragging a foot in a slow limp,
A dissenting glare
From under a black felt hat,
Passes without pausing
And melts into the fading light.
©Kim M. Russell, 2015