Frost

The hills and mountains bare.
Snow burning.
Like fitches’ flash up there
stars twisting, turning.

The shades cling to the house,
They grieve. And through
the garden, drills and boughs
like lips go blue.

A clear and icy night,
Three Kings by name.
Now read, amazed, who might,
the words in flame.

Project Details

  • Date June 23, 2015
  • Tags Frost