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.