Hoar Frost

Golden shadows play across

the blue-tinged snow

as the world glows –

transformed.

A dusting of crystals

clings to bare branches;

feathery,

hawthorn-white,

they stand out

against the changing sky.

The sun burns bright

rippling between the trees

like liquid fire.

On this day,

the modern seems ancient

and even ugly sights

are rendered

magical,

dazzling,

as though the pixies and sprites

have swept fairy dust

across the frozen world.

Can you hear them,

the tinkling of bells

and softly stepping slippers

on high?

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3 thoughts on “Hoar Frost

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