Some other story
The trees around the lake
rise and drop their branches (spilling snow)
listening and waiting for the footsteps of blind giants
and the cobweb cracking mirror noises
of the ice that groans, recovers -
a bit greyer now perhaps, a bit more ominous.
I tell you this; I tell this story
of clumsy yet gigantic ghosts,
a horde of dwarfs
and apoplectic princes,
duelling over some Habsburg belle
(daughter of the Sausage King.)
You laugh: our winter breath embraces
all the stories that we leave behind.
We kiss and then move on to other tales,
while all around us giants moan
and ghosts and winter trees and lake
forever mourn our passing.