In memory of winter

Dawn

On pre-dawn banks of frozen lake

the silver swans asleep.

The trees, all stark with icicles,

stark shelter for the sheep.

Now through the skeleton branches

an icy east wind blows

the frost from black lace tree tops,

disturbing rooks and crows.

Their strident cries declare the dawn

as silver turns to gold,

and red-gold fox slinks stealthily,

eyes screwed against the cold.

Across the chilly hillside

many other creatures pass,

betrayed by clear dark footprints

cut clean in frosty grass.

In the distance there, the village,

still in sleeping silhouette,

and in the cosy cottages

nobody stirring yet.

The valley stretches languidly,

as colours one by one

flow liquid o’er the landscape,

awakened by the sun.