Narrabundah Frost

Frozen figures frostily breathe and wheeze
Moving stilly, silent, silenced and muted
Thin. stubbled old ghosts
Bearing their years, fears and habits
As they stumble forward;
A bus stop post guides a pallid patron,
Cold-handled IGA doors await a post-dawn buyer
Carry bags and shopping trolleys are their guide
Their morning mission must be plied
The cold, icy exhalation of their final days
A mourning of the life they must face
Frost and icy snowy breath
Meets headlong with their stalwart pride
They look up and ask “Is this all, is this it, or have I been lied?”