Bowls of pink hyacinths on the sill.

Flames dancing in the marble heath,

Casting wispy smoke and dark moving shadows beneath.

Brass lamps with green glass speckled shades.

Lacquered boxes, with studded silver and gold,

Some new, others antique treasures of old.

Paintings dark, rich in there gilded frames.

Mantelshelf clock ticked relentlessly all day,

Gilded with fallen angels kneeling to pray.

Piano dark mahogany with pearly white keys.

Stood near the fireplace, song book open ready,

As if invisible hands tinkered a quit melody.

Even the polished brass bell looked not a day old.

Ringing raising no answer beyond ghostly echoes,

From the soft falling flakes of laying snow.

Roads split and ran down two sides of the village green.

Flanked by low stone houses, and an array of barns,

Fields stretched up gentle slopes leading to quaint farms.

Silence, tranquillity, no one stirred.

Only the moon cast out its light,

As the wind chill dropped even further,

To a harsh frozen bite.