Frozen over <br />like a frosted glass window pane, <br />beautiful and calm, <br />unmoving, <br />ethereal in the dampness of the morning. <br />A joy to see, to inhale <br />the smell of frozen water. <br />A rarity. <br />Stillness. <br />Silence. <br /> <br />Two ducks crash land and <br />confused by its hardness <br />skate and slip <br />and fall about like those drunken sailors <br />then fly off in disgust. <br /> <br />The sun rises and glares at the ice, <br />casting its yellow eye over the arrogant brittleness <br />that dares to challenge it. <br />Slowly, slowly, <br />like truth amongst lies <br />it wins through. <br /> <br />The illusion dissolves, <br />melts, <br />and the canal is back in the here and now, <br />liquid, <br />living, <br />soft to the touch. <br /> <br />Fascinating though it was, <br />the ice will soon be forgotten.<br /><br />Francesca Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/icing-on-the-cut/
