Three Winter poems

20th December 2012.

THIS MORNING

Hills delicately touched
with seeping light of morning
dawning in the east,
they lie like icing on the cake of day,
the heavens tinted pink and grey,
pale blue a back-cloth
peeping through the haze,
the temperature ten degrees of frost,
a buzz of traffic dully reaches us
through silent roofs and trees,
the trees,
like statues of themselves,
there is no breeze.

DAWN

Tinted pink and tinkling white,
with shell-like beauty
porcelain light,
transparent sky of winter's dawn,
flushes the heavens with its bloom,
like petals of the sweetest rose,
or lotus throat,
gives sound,
a song of mornings fresh new air,
that gently touches ground and tree,
and reaches to eternity.

UP IN THE MORNING

Rumbling traffic, rising sounds
as day dawns over the town,
rooks and crows their croaks and chacks,
sneeze and blow of nose,
creak of bones when stretched,
rustle of the paper landing on the doormat,
shuffle of the slippers on the old wooden floor,
shutting of the sqeaking bathroom door,
flushing of the toilet, shower its rain,
and then
the whistle of the tea kettle's heard again.