A poem about a sunrise

1. Morning peaked, fields crackle underfoot, a rich meadow glitters a thousand frozen
colours in a low morning sun.
Today the east wind is bitter my scarf blusters, a corner whips me in the eye, tears fall
down a white cold face.
Through the tears light reflects so harshly it hurts, I turn away from the wind, from a cold
blazing sunshine.
I wipe my eye with my sleeve and look again at thick frost and iced dewdrops in a white
land, on a white day.
In my wasteland a lilac stands stiff in its robe of ice, it's so fresh so clear, thick and bushy
so very beautiful.
It fights coldness, it fights winter, no longer clustered with buds now flushed with half
opened snow white leaves,
I stand by this brave little flower, on this cold morning the bunches of future blossoms
are all there to see.
As the lilac shivers on this early spring mornings it waits patiently, it waits in hope for a
real sun, a warm sun.
A little yellow rose climbs from hard frozen ground and is battered by coldness, battered
by spiteful breezes.
In a hedgerow a blossom of an old pear tree blooms it’s done this many times before it
understands seasons.
Creeping up the old pear tree are rose bushes, with new leaves and long red shoots on this
chilly April morning.
Once again my dear friend the taccamahac is studded with yellow aromatic sticky leaves
frosted over in the cold.
My walk takes me to a line of trees alongside fields, large gummy buds appear from
horse chestnut trees.
And before my morning walk is over I turn a full circle and watch my world as it is right
now, right this second.
I thought of all the places that I have lived across the world, this is what brought me back
again to my home.
How I had missed such beauty, how I had missed the cold, the fairytale land that had
always been my refuge.
I pulled up my collar and walked into a morning sun, breathing steam, balling my hands
in my gloves, warm inside.