Winters Tale
The diffracting light from the low morning sun,
Snows gentle dance, it reflects upon.
To the blustery chill of a northerly gale,
Tells the bracing story from,
The winter’s tale.
The morning fog and thick rolling mists,
The slippery black ice as the freeze persists.
And Leafless trees gathering snow,
With branches bared, hanging low,
The icicles gather fingers so frail,
Continues a story of,
The winter’s tale.
Upon Holly leaves with berries so full,
Stands a Robin, who fights the frigid pull.
Beauty displayed by his bright red vest,
His Chirping persists and he puffs up his chest,
To the sly winter fox who searches his trail,
His quest for food,
Within the winter’s tale.
Through frosted glass I look and admire,
Cozy and warmed by an open log fire.
A crackle of flame and the burnt pine smell,
Comforts me whilst these dark days swell.
With contrasting beauty this season can’t fail,
Completing the story from,
The winter’s tale.
By David Mayall
writerdmayall 