The battle ground is quiet, all warriors now at ease;
Statuesque and on command, well-prepared for a big freeze.
Combat tired from a vintage, where elements tried to slay;
soldiers at attention, in their cemetery they must stay.
No longer interspersed, they are left clinging to a mate;
regimented to the core, next phase to anticipate.
The tangled limbs were pruned back hard, left fortified but stern;
lifeless, twisted remains, gives little cause for concern.
Let them grow old, for in good time, new fruits will bear again;
old age brings with it character, as no wine stays the same…
With the going down of this sun, to rest in winter’s den,
I shall once again raise my glass, to celebrate with them.