The Moon's tears rain down, frosting the floor.
The night is cold steel;
The stars are pin sharp.
Dawn breaks, but does not crack the cold.
The sun pulled in the light and pushed out the night,

As it smirked at the land. Dry iced dew
Suffocates the ground. Then settles.
Kelvinistic crystals crunch underfoot.
The yellowing sun hangs low and
Promises nothing, as mercury contracts into its bulb.

The ice-blue ceiling keeps the cold in.
No clouds to save the therms.
No blanket of white to wrap round
The land. Soon the sun will be pink:
Never blushing with guilt.

Evening's here. Now it's gone.
Night's dark, but not quite.
A silver-holed sieve filters out
The last of the heat;
And a cold compress damps the air.

Morning's here, now it's gone.
Day's dim, but not quite.
A white duvet hugs the landscape;
Arthritic trees and stiff-jointed rivers
Cry out for comfort. Alas, they are never heard.

The Black Knight's gauntlet grips the grieving earth.
Wildlife is caught in a cage of cold cast-iron,
Where the raven crawks: calling for comfort.
It is never understood. Stiff skeletons in
Over-coats of bark, point boney accusing fingers at the sun.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...