Winter Morns

My days begin with frosty morns; so cheerless, grey and pale
Shaken by the frigid winds that loudly weep and wail
Whilst whistling past the hapless trees that tremble, throb and shiver
Like arrows sharp with needle points strung freshly from a quiver.

The sky looks down in pensive mood and casts its gloomy glance
On a land that is still half asleep and revel in some trance
Enchanted and enraptured by an ancient magic spell
The world sleeps softly underneath the misty morning shell

I see no colour as I trudge wearily on my way
But vast white patches all along with exceptions of grey
At times they glow in sunshine like piled up heaps of salt,
I plod across the emptiness, I have nowhere to halt.

The winter plays its frozen charm across the streets I pass,
Which smell of snow and feel like steel and meanly gleam like glass.
The horizon ahead of me lay concealed in soggy haze
And thus I take my lonely walk across the wintry days.