On this cold clear winter night
when three quarter moon holds sway
and casts on all a bluish light
almost as strong as break of day

Out in a terraced open field
uncovered patches now are seen
for the snow's begun to yield
uncovering the clover's green

Trees, unlike when they had leaf
as entities in the forest stand
by white they're given sharp relief
like marchers in a jumbled band

The Dark Forest

With a rucksack full of presents I set off to see my Gran
Never thinking of the road that lay ahead.
Wandered down the track; then bolted, I ran and ran and ran,
As a voice hissed "you'll be found tomorrow; dead!"

I stopped inside a clearing, clutching tight my ragged coat
And realised that I was lost and cold.
Before I could move on, a monstrous weasel grabbed my throat,
Hissing "When will men prize life instead of gold?"

dusting dictionaries

three dictionaries
Random House unabridged,
Oxford English,
and an old Webster
on a shelf --

being removed often --
perused --
best reading material
in the house

rarely need dusting --
they don't stay in one place
long -- always being used

dust is one of the words
found within them
soot, smut, powdery dirt,
very small detritus

dictionaries care not what words
inhabit their pages
lexicographers do

When winters' chill
arrives, via
an icy wind, so cold;

it's quite enough
to convince this man
he's getting far, too old.

The seasons' breath
will do it's best
to further make its' case;

by sharing an empty,
hollow shrill,
that gives lonliness a face.

With winter as
an only pal
that never seems to end;

I'm made aware
the trade's not fair
if I'm not allowed one friend.