First Frost (Poetry)

Over night
a cold, damp cloth has wiped
the valley clean
and now it shines,
clinical,
its sheen like porcelain,
fresh-bleached,
where yesterday’s bright stains —
a late flush
of flowers —
lingered
the frost has been
at work
purging summer’s dregs
with antiseptic
fingers
down the U-bend
of the hills
spreading white
under shadowed rim
of woods,
and fields stretch out
their sheets —
hospital-bright —
all colour blanched,
all earth-smells gone,
leaving
every surface stinging,
free from taint,
chilled by the sterile air’s
cathartic touch;
its sharp,
hygienic shock.