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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 milk
Plasters 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 oaks
Fume cloudily in the sun’s light; Winter’s colours emerge from white –
Ash-greens and dunnage like turned cloaks.
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© December 2014
