Black Frost Morning Poem by C Richard Miles

It's cold this morning, numb-thumb cold
Whose keenness nips nail-bitten fingertips
Even beneath the knitted thickness of mittens.
But, surprise, surprise – no white – this night
Has failed to make pale powder-puff frost
Appear upon the gloss-green grassy park
Yet on the drab-drawn slab-stone streets,
Glassy dark, burnished black-ice gleams
Obsidian mirrors of a scowling, jet-clad sky,
Whose turned-up corners only vaguely dare
Suggest some shades of day-dawn purple
As black-frost mutters havoc malevolently
Whispering deathly-cold under its grey breath
Suggesting that unwitting steps should slip
As grasping hard-bound ground, magnetically,
Draws us, unsuspecting plodders, down to doom.