DECEMBER MORNING





The garden wears
a winding sheet of snow.
An anaemic sun,
too weak to melt pond-ice
entombing golden fish,
hangs forlornly in
a gunmetal sky.

Lace doily spiders’ webs
decorate the naked trees.
A milky haze of frost lies
overall; listen!
nothing stirs, no breeze occurs.
no birds sing, no flowers spring.

Nor dare I move, for fear that
Mother Nature disapprove.



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