Black, cracked ice on a brooding fen,
Lamented calls of teal and moorhen,
Echo across frosted tundra and fell,
Accented by a single, mournful church bell.
Knitted reeds, hard bit by the frost,
Mute swan and mallard huddled and lost
In winters white world of ice and storm,
Deciduous branches rattle and form
Writhing patterns on peat bog and moor,
Itinerant rooks scavenge couch grass and tor.
Nighttime falls quickly 'neath a deep velvet haze,
Temperatures drop with the sun's weakened rays,
Earth settles down to a long winters night,
Reborn every morning in the frosted half light.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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