The Mere Of Ice

The morning's walk repair
is shoe-stone disturbed
at the breeze glade.

Ash, oak, more,
rush dark form of flocking leaves,
muted sunlight flashes fits.

The rain worn ink paper notice,
on the silver slatted shutter-down kiosk,
commands us to walk the mere of ice,

blind white
with blotching pools
of slow earth.

But I know it will fail my doubt;
I take the grass and boulder soaring path,
walking up the double-bended valley,

watching down
on faith belief
crash-drown.