Frozen morning

Frozen morning

The day is so cold,
the words freeze in my mouth,
drift like fog in this wintry air,

and no light relieves the chill
of frost-furred stalks.
Rime writes a cold story
across these fields

where no bird sings,
and nothing stirs this pause in time,
to reveal the dark dance of the stars.

Blue

So blue the morning
rises from the frost

dark the water
beneath the ice

still the world
behind cold glass
unfolding.

Watching the cold grow

Light pours, spreads
like melted butter,
silent as ice floes
across this winter,

brushing skin
with the sharp, dry callouses
of clawed bird feet,
clinging to life’s thread.

Empty space,
where other warm life spills,
this human part
and parcel of earth
behind cold glass.

An unexpected frost

first frost

furs grass

the waking sky

wakes the winter music

of the throstle

 

first thrush of winter

when all the summer voices

are fallen silent

his alone fills the leafless trees

with music

 

 

sun fills the sky

with light

blue and gold

thrush fills the blue golden air

with song

 

 

 

Too early frost

Fading into winter mist,

frost creeping, stealing joy—

there was golden sun here once

and peace beneath the sky,

lizard-basking on hot stone.

Cold now

il gèle à pierre fendre

and the stream yells loud between its banks

where dragonflies played

their silent summer music.

Haiku for a frosty morning

Last night the temperature was below freezing. By mid morning, in the sun, the lizards and butterflies were back.

 

Mist hangs frozen

dancing in morning sunbeams

a butterfly.

Daily poem: Essence 22

I’m not going to give in to the temptation to write about yet another massive public service strike.

 

In morning light frost furs—

last winter night murmurs.

Hungry cold

For the dverse haibun Monday prompt. Winter is coming, and it is not my favourite time of year.

 

In this country of hot summers and mild winters, frost is short and sharp, a stab in the back, the underhand blow that wilts the house plants left outdoors, that cracks terracotta pots with water left in them. It comes like a thief in the night, of cold moonlight and the diamond glitter of the stars. Faerie, it laps the grass stalks with furred tongue, and stings the lungs with the breath of the otherworld. Mornings break with the brittle tang of ice, and mist billows like taffeta clouds among the naked trees.

Too cold—like the deer, and the rabbits cowering beneath the ground, I long for the sun to rise warm and golden soft and send life coursing once again through these frozen veins.

 

Pale ice faces stare

from every hedge, cobweb-strung—

hunger stalks these fields.

Quadrille: Winter whispers

A quadrille (44 words) for the dVerse challenge.

Winter whispers in the sedge

at river’s edge

where cold mist lies

and robin flies.

Frost clings white

to winter night

and breaks the dawn

in sun’s rays shorn

of all their gold.

In colours bold,

when wild geese cry,

spring, paint the sky!

 

In the wintry grass

Photo©Emmanuel Boutet

In the wintry grass,

strung like lace,

frozen webs,

diamond spangled,

catch the dawn light.

 

Though autumn winds blow

and rain beats

and the bough bends,

the robin sings his winter song

and will sing

beneath the falling snow,

because he hopes in spring.

 

Star light,

not bright

as even the oldest moon,

pours

an eternal river,

from a time so far away,

the span of our little world,

a pinch of moondust

on a cosmic wind.

 

Raise your gaze

from the morning grass,

hung with crystal dew globes,

and scry the sky

for shooting stars.

One day they will fall

and hang in bright splinters

on winter blades of grass.