Our speech bubble breath
tells a tale of the cold
crunchy footprints mark the way home,
The last of the rays, dazzle and daze
on the crystallised snow, on the ground.
With a whirring of wings,
A pheasant flings
his gold silouette at the sky,
A parachute landing
how loudly he laughs
when we tell him he should learn to fly.
In the west the horizon
makes a commission
for a Japanese painting in grey,
Trees are charcoaled skeletons
waving goodbye to the day.
Fingertips blue, toes frozen too
snowflakes collect on my lashes,
A conspiracy grin, we both jump in
and compete to make the most splashes.
Comments
Silver Spun Sand | January 7, 2010 - 10:33
Oh, this is so very much how it is here at the moment. Our garden is full of pheasants doing exactly what you describe in your second stanza.
The whole poem in fact, is like a painting, which I can also see by looking out of my window.
Very much enjoyed.
Tina x
shoe | January 7, 2010 - 11:56
Thank you so much, stupid birds can't fly for toffee, snow still beautiful though isn't it,:~}