Thick the mist at early morning's dawn, <br />Cold the chill that enters by the door, <br />White the frost, that lies, across the lawn, <br />Each one piercing, striking to the core <br />Of one's whole being. Then wakes the foggy morn, <br />Where sunshine will in time, melt frost on haw, <br />And rouse the sleeping field mouse in the corn, <br />By dripping water down upon his paw. <br />He'll scuttle off, expression all forlorn, <br />To leave the day to begin its gentle thaw. <br /> <br />© Ernestine Northover<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-gentle-thaw/
