It is Winter, ghostly, morning sun in the once yellow-straw-covered village,
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crispy and virgin white, the lanes empty and quiet as a shushing, single finger on blue lips.
See how the pea-soup mist, thickens and swirls like a ghost in a rage.
Feel the chill from the small brook as it fights its icy encrustation, flowing under
those sheets that sold their frozen soul to night times, lowest fall.
Edging the banks, trees and bushes, their roots sit soil solid
As fur ferrets, rustling in old-Autumn's, crumpled waste.
Through leaf-pattern windows, kettles bubble boil as cups clunk, coffee drunk.
Now, the houses warm, as boilers sing some rumbling, 'old-flame' song.
Outside, gardens have lost all colour, roses that once blushed, sit wan and ashamed.
Berries that once bled red, rigid in their new coats of winter white.
A Blue tit wrestles with some frozen fat, that hangs like a crystal corpse.
Paths hide their black ice, like a hunter's well-laid traps.
On an icing-sugar-coated field, far from the village,
A white rabbit runs invisible, as this morning
Disappears... into the history of the ticking clock.