Calends

The Calends of Winter
The grown grows hard
The dead leaf drops in the rain
Though the stranger bid thee, turn not again.

About the hearth draw the gossips close
As storms hold the earth
Now many a secret spills in the mirth.

Forgot in the cold the tale
The Calends of Summer told
What the cuckoo sang to the blackbird bold.

The night falls soon, black as the raven
The afternoon declines to evening
Without a tune.

An old Welsh poem on the approach of winter, by an unknown author.

Drawn on pale blue calligraphy paper (8.27 in x 11.69 in), variously in blue and black ink, with silver and blue ink highlights.