My poem about - Frost
From out of the dark the long tendrils creep
Carried on mist, whilst we are asleep.
As they wend their way over all of the land,
Shaping the landscape, with a sweep of the hand.
As we stir in the night – pull the bedclothes up tight
Unaware of the magic which is woven tonight.
In the light of the moon the world starts to glow
As little ice crystals are starting to grow
Where the icy long fingers have had time to play
Leaving everything white for the start of the day
The windows once clear glass now frosted they stay
With the patterns of ice, in Jack Frosts special way.
In the morning it hangs there a cloud of damp ice
This fog in the mornings, which- is not so nice!
As we get out of bed and get dressed for the day
And see what is out there, to be cleared away….
All the frost on our paving and drives and windscreens
We will never be ready in time – so it seems.
Then the journey to work is pure magic to see
As the sunlight beams down on the new painted trees
As they glow in such glory with the new film of ice
And reflect the suns colours so golden – so nice
As they twinkle and sparkle in the light of the sun
Like the world is transformed to this magical one.
If you look at them closely these branches now hold
Some amazing ice crystals – a sight to behold
Little pinnacles growing towards the blue sky
How they all seem so perfect – I can not say why
All the grass and the hedges and also the trees
The houses the lampposts the cars – all have these.
Jack Frost is not welcome; it is true to say,
As it makes our day harder to go on our way.
But this special occasion he gave me such joy
As I felt like a child - with a brand new toy
With a world which was dusted and sparkled so white
From Jack Frost when he came, in the dead of the night.
By Linda Mynett 9/12/10