Alan Pearson Poetry

It was a night of cut glass
when tortured trees were bit by razor ice
- all unseen in woodland deep.

I conjure forest trails in sleep,
where long-leaf conifer
sway to a breeze, and float a veil
of spindrift white.

A dream-walking night when cathedral trees
maintain a colloquy of sighs.
A night wild as panting wolves
that scatter claw prints round
a stricken deer.

A talon sharp night when a silent owl,
its pale feathers suffocating
ragged chords of terror,
floats the dark menace of its shadow
over a pool of lethal moonlight.


	Winter Mood




	It was a night of cut glass when tortured trees were bit by razor ice - all unseen in woodland deep. I conjure forest trails in sleep, where long-leaf conifer sway to a breeze, and float a veil of spindrift white. A dream-walking night when cathedral trees maintain a colloquy of sighs. A night wild as panting wolves that scatter claw prints round a stricken deer. A talon sharp night when a silent owl, its pale feathers suffocating ragged chords of terror, floats the dark menace of its shadow over a pool of lethal moonlight.