A Crispy Voice | Ken Allan Dronsfield

And a North wind briskly blows,
where those red poppies grow
in the dark of an Autumn night
the stars look on in joyful delight
waiting or twinkling here or there
in that cold and icy midnight air
we await that cherished prize
in that sonnet called sunrise
cloistered foggy mists inhale
treasure earthy smells entail
nature’s crispy voices speak
where the red poppies grow.