The woodland ways are frozen now
And crackle underfoot,
And every leaf from every bough
Stays right where it’s been put.
Each puddle is a sheet of ice
I feel compelled to break
But never would at any price;
That’s not my route to take.
The sun’s obscured by thick, grey cloud
Which also hides the sky.
I almost say it’s like a shroud,
Although I can’t think why.
On such a frosty winter’s day,
It’s beautiful in its own way.
Photo by Ella Nergaard on Unsplash
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