So many winters already counted and yet I stand facing another bitter harvest from the cold months to come. The world for me does not wait for spring born health and vigour to rescue as it once did. We perforce must decay and nature merely postpones its settling of scores till it surely enfeebles us entirely into its arms. Yet even so I would gladly sail across the wide sea unto home if the clouds could doth part and bestow upon me the advantage of the day. These doldrums are honourless and as I look across the azure expanse soft draws closer a chill. When the night to come is so unadorned in enchantment any dream taken as a sign of hope will surely disintegrate in the day.