Frost
Frost
It creeps up on us like a silent web, that silver carpet that covers the morning
like a silken sheath. How still the street is as the sun shines on the
steaming roof tops, making the gardens appear like a hot bath, in the cold air.
The leaves lie, curled and crumpled like discarded tissues on the pavement, waiting for the wind to blow them to the sky.
Every thing is different this morning, magical, cobwebs, lacey and outlined in the hedge, windows decorated by the frosts icy designers art. Surreal and beautiful, raw and fragile, gone too soon in the heat of the sun.
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