The morning air flares on the skin,
The sky is high and iceberg cold,
The crimson sun, a too-close world,
Looms over rooftops that the day begin.
An ice-lump frost like frozen milkPlasters the grass and rigid oaks,
A crow cracks the silence with rattling croaks;
Sun-touched, the frost glistens like silk.
A split-pale fence begins to steam,The sun’s heat creeping on its topmost bar;
Like incense drifting near and far
The frost exhales a breath-thin stream.
Wet-black the fence; and now the grass and oaksFume cloudily in the sun’s light;
Winter’s colours emerge from white –
Ash-greens and dunnage like turned cloaks.
© December 2014