The Morning Was Cold Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

The morning was cold
As I drew back the curtains,
And breathed on the glass
Of my still frozen pane,
As the ice slowly melted
And I could see out,
At a landscape so pretty
A snow laden plain.

The icicles hung
From the gutter above,
I stood and I watched
As the snowflakes did fall,
Alas the poor robin
Just stood there alone,
On the crest of a fencepost
And sang his sweet call.

The squirrel upon
Twisted boughs of an oak,
Whose branches were dusted
And powdered in white,
As flakes were still falling
From grey leaden skies,
And cloaking the dawning
Of first breaking light.

The footprints of creatures
Made patterns and pictures,
And moving in circles
On snow covered ground,
The morning was still
And so peaceful the day,
I gazed at my window
At winter surround.