Without permission . . .

Cold and clammy fingers that creep and caress.
Feet that tread, slowly and surely, across the ice.
Trees with white-shroud branches.
Shrubs bent, weighted with winter.
And then there are the footprints in the snow.

In the dark hours, when no-one but the moon
Is watching, comes roving the fox, hunting
In the starlight, and passing under the windows
Unseen and unheard, but leaving the mark of passage.

When the sun rises, the silver-grey-steel shimmers
And draws lines across the landscape, cold
Water and snow-lapped shores, together
Marking the season's progress.

Cold hands, gloved but chilled, clasping
The hot mug of tea.

© 2ndwitch, 21/01/15