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Thursday 17 January 2013

December Hoar Frost

Air ice hangs like wood smoke
burning my lungs.

This is no white moss,
softly blanketing tile and thatch –
a glassy shroud ensnares each seared leaf,
each seed head.

Intricate wrought iron, armed
with spikes and spears
will draw blood, if required.

Our poor designs
falter beneath
Nature’s imposing patterns.

© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved

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