The clearing.
Circled by leering trees,
lit by the dappled glow of a baleful moon,
casts new shapes
Arcane and twisted
that grasp at the sky.
A bright dusting, then a coating
of tasteless icing
drifts,
banking mutely around the black trunks
in a chill and loveless embrace.
A silent visitor emerges
and sniffs the glass-frozen air.
He is a streak of burnt orange
rendered dazzling
stark against the endless white,
and endless black
like a stranded sun.
From the shadowed tree line,
a muffled crunch of snow underfoot
then a breath,
a fleeting ghost.
As the flakes hang from eyelash and melt on skin
the gun is levelled
and cracking the night
like thunder
a new colour is born.
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