As Dawn Does Stir The Sleeping Night Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

As dawn does stir the sleeping night
That gripped the woodland with its chill
Through faintest mist and frosted trees
The ghostly sun does rise,
That creeps above horizon dark
Where shadows seem to linger on
While branch and bough do reach unto
The pallid winter skies.

So still the air the gentle hush
As silver slowly yields to blue
Which clears the way for beams to shine
And frozen land to thaw,
The robin finds a lowly perch
And there forlornly casts his eyes
Then turns the twigs and lifts the leaves
Which lie upon the floor.

With amber fern now wilted which
Do line the winding wooded track
And bow their crowns which glisten in
The early morning light,
Upon the way a puddle lies
And iced within a shallow mould
All cracked and crazed too cold the morn
To free it from its plight.

I look towards the fallen oak
Which fell yet but a month ago
And there its mighty root exposed
To which the earth does cling,
And as it lies within its grave
Its leaves shall never turn to green
Nor shall it bear its fruit again
Or see the coming spring.