The Night Jack Frost Came Calling
639 words
The last of the autumn leaves had tumbled down, And bare black branches scratched a violet sky, When something crept through every street in town And breathed its silver breath without a sigh.
It pressed cold fingers to the window pane, And left white ferns and feathers in the glass, It stiffened every hollow, hill and lane, And turned to crackling crystal all the grass.
The fox paused at the gate and sniffed the air, Then tucked her brush more tightly round her paws, She felt the cold tug gently at her fur, And blinked at skies as pale as porcelain.
The blackbird on the fence post would not sing, He ruffled up his feathers, black as coal, And hunched his shoulders like a brooding thing, As though the frost had stolen half his soul.
The garden was a different world by dawn: Each blade of grass wore diamonds, sharp and bright, The spider's web was hung with pearls of ice, And every leaf was trimmed with silver light.
The oak tree at the corner of the park Stood stiff and still in robes of glittering white, Its branches reaching upward, silver-dark, As though it meant to comb the morning light.
And on the pond the water held its breath, A mirror made of clouded, milky grey, Where moorhens once had paddled, free and quick, Now not a ripple dared to move or play.
A small girl peered from underneath her quilt, She breathed a misty cloud against the pane, Then rubbed a circle with her thumb and tilted Her nose to glass to see the world again.
'It's come,' she whispered, hardly breathing out, She did not know quite why her heart should sing, For frost means cold, and cold means school in boots, Yet something in the whiteness felt like spring.
She dressed in haste and crept downstairs alone, Before the kettle woke the sleeping house, She turned the stiff bronze handle, cold as bone, And slipped outside as silent as a mouse.
Her breath came out in plumes of ghost-like white, Her boots made loud and satisfying cracks, As though the frozen puddles said good morning, And shattered into lace and silver tracks.
She cupped a fern of frost inside her palms, As delicate as any thing she'd known, It prickled at her skin like tiny sparks, Then melted into nothing, soft as foam.
She pressed one boot-print deep into the lawn, A dark green shape among the silver white, And marvelled that a single step could leave Such proof that she had walked there in the night.
The frost had laced the hedges like a veil, Had sketched white outlines round each twig and stone, Had made the whole familiar street look strange, As though the world had put fresh clothing on.
She thought of all the sleeping children warm Beneath their blankets, blind to such a day, And felt a swell of something close to pride, That she alone had caught the frost at play.
Then from the upstairs window came a call, Her mother's voice, still warm with sleep and tea: 'Come in, come in, you'll catch your death of cold! You'll freeze out there! Come in this instant, please!'
The girl looked once more at the glittering lane, The silver-threaded hedges, hung with light, She took a breath of sharp and icy air, And whispered, 'Thank you, frost. You got it right.'
Then turned and ran, her boots still ringing out, Along the path of crackling, chiming ice, She burst back through the door and stamped her feet, And said the morning frost had been 'quite nice'.
But in her chest a secret warmth still glowed, For she had seen the world before the rest, Had held a fern of frost inside her hands, And known the frozen morning at its best.