Snow
The frost is thawing in the rising sun,
The chill of the morning lost in winter’s pale.
Though December has only just begun,
And the alder branches are bent and frail,
My thoughts are of home, the hearth and the hale.
The robins in their nests still lay
Though the grip of cold clenches at their dale,
The waking fauna strutting gay,
Their love of cold lives through the hail
And echoes 'cross the frozen vale.
The bells, the bells, they rob the still
And fade away on snowy gale,
Replaced instead by silent hill
Neath moonlit nights and starry veil;
A bleak, marvelous fairytale.
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