Where once deciduous gowns were worn
One single leaf clings limp and torn
A lone crow pecks at ploughings petrified by Arctic air
Sounds of silence are gathering everywhere
Last night a gibbous moon sailed west
Kissing the earth as she progressed
With fragile light from long ago
Reflected from our first real snow
That in slow motion spiralled down
Softening the contours of this town
To leave a lithographic scene
And footprints where a fox had been
Warm in our beds we count in seconds
Though days are short the solstice beckons
Weather reports are imbued with gloom
Springtime cannot come too soon
7 comments:
I heard on the radio today that England has just experienced the coldest first week of December since 1659.
Nice poem!
That's kinda nice!
love the crow..... one of you shots?
RHYMES You're right. Fortunately in the last twenty four hours a significant thaw has begun. This morning I could even see green grass in our garden for the first time in two weeks.
JOHN Am I damned by faint praise?...And no, it's not one of my own pictures. I pinched it from Google Images. It just seemed to say something recognisable about December's gloominess.
Amen. I wrote that just so I could type a period.
JAN In England, ladies don't write periods, they have them.
I'm past that age. (yippee!)
Lovely word images, YP. We've no snow here, but December's sub-freezing chill has stripped any remaining green from my garden, leaving only blackened stalks behind. Any time it gets this cold, I am reminded of "milk comes frozen home in pail." Stay warm!
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