Blue

So blue the morning
rises from the frost

dark the water
beneath the ice

still the world
behind cold glass
unfolding.

White

Cold of daybreak
and we suck in our breath
gasp at the sudden burning in the throat
lungs filling with fire.

White as the ashes of hell
the silent earth waits
painted scenery
of an apocalyptic play;

air glitters vibrates
with small birdwings
and a glimmer of hope runs
through the veins of the morning

like quicksilver.

Cold morning

And all the roses frozen
caught tight in winter’s tide
the soft white fur belies
the death inside
touched by cold sun
softening worm-brown
reclaimed.

Bleak

not frost white or mist pearl
no photogenic shading

all is flat
monotone

crows beat a black rhythm
across furrowed fields

and sky colourless as the water
pouring over the world’s edge.

I listen for the echo of growing
rising with the clouds of seaspray

but only crowsong stirs the air
black throats choking on the sun.

Year grown old

Cold sweeps,

weeps tears of frost,

lost among the grass.

 

In the dark, stars spoke,

broke their silent dance,

enhancing the night.

 

From pods, white furred,

bird shakes the seeds,

feeds fire-spark quick.

 

Thick mists curl,

furling, swirling, pearl bright

light of a year grown old.

Bleak mid-winter

 

Cold creeps

rain pours

and by the door a river runs.

Clouds bowl

across the skating rink sky

and trees wave bare arms calling

foul.

Too wet and cold and dim and dull

to walk wet fields

and even the mob of finches by the house

has dispersed beneath the tears.

Dog grumbles in his sleep

cats twitch

and the stove spits and spats its stingy heat.

Inside

the cold sits tight as pack ice

and by the door

a river runs.

Haibun: January

For the dverse prompt.

When indoor temperatures are only a few degrees above the outside, and chilblains form peeling potatoes got out of the barn, there is a kinship with the cold, the stillness and the furtive feathered and furred life that creeps and sweeps about the frosty fields. I feed the birds and whatever else enjoys fruit past its best and the contents of the bread bin. January is chill. We all long for the spring.

Stark still sky echoes

with the boom of cracking ice—

north wind keening.