Winter Poem by James Smith

Winter comes in grey in our broad valley
Blinded in fogs we sense a colder air,
From distant icey harsher places,
Come uninvited for a longer stay.

On fencing, white grids of frost steadily
Thicken and advance like sparkling moss
The dead flowers sharpen with an edge
Of palest grey and solemnly mass the borders.

An ever earlier sunset glows like
Some distant forge behind black trees
Already stars are silver overhead in
A sky that shades apple green to indigo.