Phil Fox
Frost
This night, beside a low brick wall
A strip of path lies frosting.
There is no deception.
No mystic tilt of a laden skep
Nor secret showers of splintered crystal
That silent
Drift
In invisible mists,
To kindle and fuse upon the pitch black paths
Like fragments from broken stars.
No, there is no deception.
Just an atmospheric vapour
Which falls on the small flecks of granite
And freezing
Glazes
Into miniature blazes,
That sparkle and glint in the pitch black paths,
Like fragments from fallen stars.
Page(s) 20
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