I Am the Song of Winter

I am the beard of icicles

That hangs beneath the eaves

I am the rock-hard mud

The frosty crunch of frozen leaves

I am the chilly wind that searches out

The cracks around the door

I am the wet scarf on the radiator

The puddle on the floor

I am the bustling of the birds

The seeds thrown in the snow

I’m the blue tit on the bacon rind

The patience of the crow

I am trees drawn with a fine black nib

Against a troubled sky

I am a pensioner. All alone

As another day creeps by

I’m the awesome silence

When the final snowflake’s fallen

I am the halo round the moon

The dark the day has stolen

Yes, I’m the gloomy afternoon

The leeching of the light

I am the growling, howling song

The wind sings in the night

Sometimes I’m hot buttered toast

As the snowstorm roars outside

But sometimes I’m untimely death

And the feeling hope has died