Static As The Ink In A Dead Poet’s Pen,

Here in this flurry of freezing fluff of flakes,
Those last-leaf trees, tremble
In a snow-gliding wind.
Bowing grasses, soon to be interned
In drowning drifts,
Take their last look at heaven.

Wild life, now hides in the warming straw
Of their knowledgeable labours,
For they knew the signs in the roof of a sky
and the thickness of new fur coats.

The lake, comatose in skins of ice,
Static as the ink in a dead poet’s pen,
Where gangs of blustering snow, bully the greenery
Like a great camouflaging chameleon of natures ways.

Soon, icicles inch by inch will threaten
To pierce the soft heads of walkers,
And we will all become black dots…

To those… who watch from a distance.