A FROSTED CANVAS
All was still; reflective,
A sky so clear and so blue,
Of a bright February morning; the lake stands like glass,
A quiet and evocative view.
The ripples; once wet and flowing,
Now ridges on an icy veneer,
Small reed beds frozen in time near cold and white-powdered banks,
And the surface is glossy and clear.
Surrounding images 'gainst silhouettes in the sun,
Willows of white or, some, weeping of gold,
Buds soaking in the warmth of the rays, like the ducks, the geese and the moorhen,
They stretch, spread their wings and unfold.
As you gaze at the warming picture ahead,
'tis on a frosted canvas she is painted,
A solid mirror image of winter's dusk and a palette of soft colours grow,
Their initiation of Spring is reacquainted.
Andrea Gibbons
12th February 2007
