The crystal blades of winter frost
Have snipped the leaves that dot the field.
The trees leak iron-black across
The sky where evening swallows wheeled.
A knifey light cuts deep and shows
Leaves with their intricate designs
Half sodden in the drifted snows,
Beneath the moaning, deathless pines.
And wind like water softly pours
Over the gnashing river reeds.
The river that no longer roars
Died quiet in its bed of weeds.
Now morning vapors ghost and drift.
The clouds beyond look thickly whisked.
There comes a bitter snow to sift
The frozen earth, where seeds lie disked.
— by Ray Harvey