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.


Hungry cold

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

Evening mist1


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.

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,


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.