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.