Lying in my cosy bed,
I can't drift to sleep.
Curtains drawn, I stand and gaze
in to night so deep.

Wind prowls through my old oak tree;
branches creak and moan;
ice is inching up the path,
glinting from the stones.

Air from heavy midnight breaths
lands across the glass;
clouds obscure a waning moon -
frost forms on the grass.

Snow has dusted garden tops.
Peering down, I squint;
in the finest sprinkled flakes,
boots have made new prints.

Mine are drying by the fire
with my scarf and cloak;
footsteps from the caller trudge
down towards the oak...

Fraying rope winds round the bough
over toppled chair;
nothing in the garden moves.
Frozen still, I stare.

From an old tree's groaning branch
where the bluebirds sang
just above the hawthorn hedge,
I can see him hang.