Frost

Memories of Jack Frost winter's mornings as a child with patterned window panes and crunchy grass under school shoes and breathing out a flurry of air like a little dragon. Examining frosty gems on leaf edges and being satisfied with a sparkling covering, second place to snow in its transformation of the daily landscape. Something new, a fresh angle, changing that which seemed insignificant into a glorious winter view of white rooftops, ice in buckets and tones of blue. I can stand for ages, absorbed in its beauty and admire the grasp of Old Man Winter. A ferocious grasp on any herbaceous plant that dared to have perky green shoots this far into winter, now slumped in defeat.....for now at least. A dazzle of silver as the low sun hits each crystal, ready to burn away into vapour like the circle of smoke from next door's chimney.