With low grey clouds slowly sinking under a leaden weight
the wan sun wraps itself in its own heat
reluctant to share as each day dims
while it watches the ice build as its rays retreat.
Each night the moon gathers the stars close
and casts a baleful eye on emerging frost
its weak light illuminates winters tread
as it advances further to accost
the land and lay bare rattled trees
chattering in their naked shivering.
Like some child’s long discarded worn-out toy
or a pup unwanted, neglected, left quivering.
The low light, acknowledging the inevitable end,
picks its way tentatively through the woods
not wishing to be extinguished by a cruel wind
ice-blown in hollows where glades once stood.
No creatures stir, no birds sing
claws worn white, feathers an armour against winter’s sting.