My Poetry. The Winter Hush.

The air is glass, a sharp and brilliant chill,
Where breath blooms white and silence holds the hill.
The trees stand stark, in charcoal silhouette,
Their summer green a dream they now forget.

A blanket falls, deliberate and slow,
Muffling the world in fields of velvet snow.
The hurried stream becomes a crystal glass,
Reflecting back the moments as they pass.

The sun hangs low, a weak and pallid gleam,
A distant memory within the dream.
And in the homes, a golden, warm retreat,
The scent of woodsmoke, cosy, soft, and sweet.

We gather close where embers softly burn,
And wait the slow, inevitable return
Of brighter days, while in this silver spell,
The sleeping earth prepares its story well.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025