WINTER BLUES

The trees are stripped bare now

like naked bones picked clean

by the sharp beak of ravenous crow

in winter grown too lean.

Hill and dale are brown and dead

and birds no longer sing.

Of the coming months I'm full of dread,

winter's really not my thing.

North winds shapeshift leaves into devils,

while high above dark clouds

are banking up in rippling levels

as if sombre burial shrouds.

Each blade of grass is turning white

and solid as miniature swords.

Jack Frost's spell with stinging bite

brings a vision of frozen fiords.

What counter-magic can I devise

to banish him far away?

For he's the cause of summer's demise

and I'll make him pay some way.

Those days of bathing in the sun

on sandy beaches are gone,

and staying indoors is much less fun -

oh I feel so put upon!

But in my heart last summer's bees

still hum through the vibrant hues

of bluebells, poppies, roses and peonies...

to ward off these winter blues.