Frost locks the landscape under sun, <br />silvers the gold of autumn, <br />deepens hollows in the fields, <br />sharpens shadows on the mountainsides, <br />accents the birds, owls, . kestrels, buzzards <br />sitting on tree-stumps moodily <br />aware of stillness as lack of food. <br /> <br />Surely they must also see it as beautiful <br />though harsh, perhaps remember <br />the sun still has some hours of life <br />as they flap around surlily <br />or wait at the end of a line of molehills <br />for the blind morsel to rise. <br /> <br />Frost works its art then stops to look, <br />anazed that time waits for a breeze <br />as if the fields were an oceanscape <br />that might bring a fish-shoal of plenty, <br />glittering darlings for fieldfares, <br />blackberries plump again in the hedge. <br /> <br />We all hole ourselves up, people and birds, <br />for frost is bigger and scarier than us, <br />our enemy, it holds our ground unbidden <br />and we wait for it to soften, to become <br />accustomed here, to let up, so grasses <br />move and the wind blows, we have no option <br />but to wait, till the frost shifts, <br />sneaks off to its bitter home.<br /><br />Sally Evans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/frost-15/
