Whiter on white;
colder than before;
Trees like stately wedding guests,
Georgiana’s ghosts.
The paler disc of the sun
evanescent through frosted air.
No dancing deer.
And the offer of nuts
on a wayside stone is
unnoticed by the squirrel
that balances with swinging tail
on the trapeze.
Despite scolding rooks,
mocking daws and
the hollow rattle of an expectant woodpecker,
they have cut away the willows by the bridge
and placed the russet twigs
to smoulder in the ash.
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January 16, 2009 at 6:07 am
This is alive. I read it through the fog of my frozen breath, just short of real.