Frost

Climatic poetry

An iced world,

A fresh laced cake.

Portents of,

A frozen lake.

Frost covered bushes,

Fences, trees,

Long gone,

Are summer leaves.

A blanket of lace,

Is drawn over this land,

Pulled along,

By an unseen hand.

Not yet snowballs,

Not yet snow,

Not yet come,

That I know.

There is a look on the face,

On every cat every cat I see,

Saying 'There is a fire at home,

Waiting for me.'

Elinor Tufnell