Frost Poem by Sally Evans

Frost locks the landscape under sun,
silvers the gold of autumn,
deepens hollows in the fields,
sharpens shadows on the mountainsides,
accents the birds, owls, . kestrels, buzzards
sitting on tree-stumps moodily
aware of stillness as lack of food.

Surely they must also see it as beautiful
though harsh, perhaps remember
the sun still has some hours of life
as they flap around surlily
or wait at the end of a line of molehills
for the blind morsel to rise.

Frost works its art then stops to look,
anazed that time waits for a breeze
as if the fields were an oceanscape
that might bring a fish-shoal of plenty,
glittering darlings for fieldfares,
blackberries plump again in the hedge.

We all hole ourselves up, people and birds,
for frost is bigger and scarier than us,
our enemy, it holds our ground unbidden
and we wait for it to soften, to become
accustomed here, to let up, so grasses
move and the wind blows, we have no option
but to wait, till the frost shifts,
sneaks off to its bitter home.