Winter's Fingers Poem by Dale Mullock

I’m looking out of the window,
watching the rain turn to snow,
the land is running from winter’s grasp,
but naked trees mean autumn’s past.

Trees’ bony fingers reach for the sky,
but the pale grey sky is a little shy,
and will not answer their call,
no matter how big or how tall.

But the clouds do speak and answer,
with snow, the subtle breeze dancer,
and the snows’ frisky little caper,
covers the land and blankets nature.

The land is under a white membrane,
but on my side of the window frame,
all is cosy with the fire ablaze,
my window is now a frosty glaze.