Desolate Seasons

Whisper winds at dusk,
As the people hobble home.
Creeping shadows, crawling,
Slithering into households.

Frost; mourning night,
As it slowly slips away,
Drizzling into daylight,
Forming puddles in the mud.

Broken figures slowly stumble,
As children start to frolic,
Widows sit and contemplate,
All that has gone wrong.

In the fury of the sun,
As fathers pick the fields,
The grapes now ripe and fat,
The summer's crop to harvest.

Now frozen tears fall,
Touched by Nature's cold embrace,
Shrouding barren, patched land,
In quiet desolation.