The chill

Jena Woodhouse
A winter sky bears bleakly down,
expelling colour from the town.

Three days ago birds lingered on -
a heron preened himself in sun,
the pontoon warmed a pair of swifts
drying dark blue ailerons.

Now they hide from flinty winds
that pierce the breast
like icy darts;
the last of autumn's unshed leaves
glisten in the frost like stars...