An unexpected frost

DecFrost2

first frost

furs grass

the waking sky

wakes the winter music

of the throstle

DecFrost.jpg

 

first thrush of winter

when all the summer voices

are fallen silent

his alone fills the leafless trees

with music

 

DecFrost3.jpg

 

sun fills the sky

with light

blue and gold

thrush fills the blue golden air

with song

 

 

 

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

1024px-feuilles-avec-glace-leaves-with-ice-1

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.