In The Dead Of Winter

White feathery frosts of ice on grass And trees. Heavy frigid breaths do pass, With blustery icy cold wind on your face. Damp paths and wet cold roads trace A pattern and icicles hang from gutters. Mist swirls around wispy folds unwinds And forms cold clumps of foggy binds Like some super glue in low lying lands, That saps the strength and chills the hands. Of stamping feet of cold dead legs. With cars not starting and batteries dead And frosted windscreens is enough said. The wet glistening vapour on metal glowing, And water running down the window showing. Of wispy smoke rising aloft from chimneys. Of hard cold vegetables stuck in the ground Hoar frost freezing the hard grown mound. Dark clouds rising from grounds so harden And snow falling in the dank cold garden. The frozen earth does not complain. The dead of winter comes round again.