WINTER MORNING
the blinding silver eastern sun,
dawn metal in the frost,
pull back the curtain, day has begun,
the tattered dreams of night are lost
the empty day begins to fill,
the frost to fade in hours ahead,
the cat upon the window sill,
the old man turns his fristy head.
embers spindle into flame
the wood pile dwindles into smoke
the slain bygones cast no blame
cut down by the hour’s stroke.
cobwebs shine their jewelled net
their makers fled from sight
cold can kill, do not forget,
they sped into the endless night.
rise up and get about the day
and be not dawdling long
migrating birds have flown away
the empty air conveys no song
here we, like ghosts, are left behind
lichen on a rock
a fate that’s neither grim nor kind,
we wait, while fate takes stock.
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