They sound like fire crackling
or cutlery scraping against a plate.

Yet silent and spinning;
a sigh swept from the chest.

Slow as a feather falls to a lake;
a kiss on the lips, a hand to the face.  

They sound like frost caught in the night,
like the static friction of your gloved hands.

Morning diamonds, damp with dew,
and trudging on in old heavy boots.

The sound of the world turning
is in the echo of each falling leaf.

Wavering, drifting until they come to the curb,
crisp and brittle and easy to break.

They sound of scarves and hats and gloves
in that constant fight for warmth.

But in the wind they sing, they’re alive,
the sound of whispers, the colour of fire.