Behind the Curtains
It's cold behind the curtains.
The frost is settling in.
The icicles hanging from the roofs
are drying in the wind.
The Moon is getting colder
as day gives way to night;
one owl's ruffled plumage:
a rest for lunar light.
From chimneys rise the wintry scents
of burning firewood,
keeping warm the occupants
of a sleepy neighbourhood.
The oak and beech quiescent,
all the ash and hazel too.
Dormant in the twilight
of a year that's almost through.
The solid ground is sparkling,
the crispy grass is full of stars.
This winter's fallen leaves
wear delicate coats of frosted glass.
So little sound is in the air,
you can almost hear the cold..
With the gentle caressing of the wind
upon a peaceful world.
Underneath the icy Moon,
in its bitter, twinkling night,
the owl spreads her silent wings
and takes to silver flight.
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