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There's snow in the air and ice upon the rut;

Skeletal forms, unmoving and unmoved,

Stark reminders of Death's scything cut.

There's snow in the air.

Grey the street and grey the sky, amazed

By silence after all the Christmas glut

Of ice-rink carols and town centres' paved

With wooden huts, bratwurst, the gentle phut

Of hand-cranked roundabouts; all now passed

Dark as ashes from the Yule - but

There's snow in the air.

Brian Hick January 2013

©copyright Sally Hick 15.1.25