The morning was cold <br />As I drew back the curtains, <br />And breathed on the glass <br />Of my still frozen pane, <br />As the ice slowly melted <br />And I could see out, <br />At a landscape so pretty <br />A snow laden plain. <br /> <br />The icicles hung <br />From the gutter above, <br />I stood and I watched <br />As the snowflakes did fall, <br />Alas the poor robin <br />Just stood there alone, <br />On the crest of a fencepost <br />And sang his sweet call. <br /> <br />The squirrel upon <br />Twisted boughs of an oak, <br />Whose branches were dusted <br />And powdered in white, <br />As flakes were still falling <br />From grey leaden skies, <br />And cloaking the dawning <br />Of first breaking light. <br /> <br />The footprints of creatures <br />Made patterns and pictures, <br />And moving in circles <br />On snow covered ground, <br />The morning was still <br />And so peaceful the day, <br />I gazed at my window <br />At winter surround.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-morning-was-cold/
