Blue-black skies alive with winter’s fire-flies
caught in street-lamps’ glow,
floating blobs feigning bog-cotton blooms.
Gentle as a mother’s first kiss,
touching, resting, on skeletal branches,chimney pots, roof-tops, ivy-clad walls;
silently weaving downy layers
turning emerald grass, grey asphalt
as a virgin canvas.
for waking eyes to wonder at a crystal-dusted world.