It came in the night,
roaring and howling.
Hungry.
The trees,
in the morning,
lifting their leafless limbs
against the scudding sky.
The willow wept no more,
bowing her head
as if in shame.
And in the park
a towering tracery of
twigs
against the blue.
They look
taller somehow.
majestic in
their
nakedness.
Stripped of their
Autumn 'glad-rags'
Winter came.
