The warm shrubs wait, with silent dread
For frigid flakes, that bone white sand
Desert of chills ― a plague of cold
that smothers up the moonlit land

A leaf upon the holly tree
Would you be pleased, in icy grip,
to feel those crystals cruelly bite
the vital sap that you should sip?

A berry on a frozen bush
Your very juice congeals to mush
As scimitars of ice attack
your heart, now turning into slush

Hexagonal death, six ways to die
A tiny dagger on each prong
So innocent, as each flake falls
So guilty, settled as a throng

Each particle gives death’s caress
The stray cat breathes its last meow
The doom of snow is falling thick
Mummy, can we go skiing now?


© Oliver Wright

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