The beauty of the sun in the hawthorn tree

Sunlight strikes dew drops on a hawthorn tree,
a beauty no lens of mine can capture.
The golden fingers stretch towards the sky
and the flaming orb obscured by branches
casts brilliant spells upon the frozen grass.

A blackbird searches chicken-like in the frost.
Stalked by a hungry cat.
The bird wins this encounter.
While above a finch watches
picking at food we have left it
for this long Winter.

Crystalised

Crystaline towers arise from the frozen floor,
frozen white in a frozen world.
Once productive, reproductive -
now dead.
Ice forming on cold seed heads.

There is no wind.
No movement in the scene,
save blackbirds, thrushes and robins
squabbling over fallen seed,
cast by a caring hand.
They race fluttering by until-
at once, they land.

The trees are stalwart in the face of the coldest hours.
Only stars and stones could seem more lasting.

The whole garden is a crystal construct.
Ice refrozen over a half dozen days.
I feel one step onto the sheet,
and the whole land will shatter.