Touch of Frost

The colour worn upon the wing

Of a bird in newborn spring

May fall fore winter's chill descent.

Its splendour's for a second lent.

A flower grown to proud display

Bears the seeds of its decay.

Its petals wilt by time's own will

Before it's felt to have its fill.

An eye that saw through lens of bice

May lose its lust to age's ice.

The gem that shone in dazzling blaze

Shall dull erelong to frigid haze.

Though moment's pass the beauty fades,

Still the soul its mark pervades.

Small in scale and brief in turn,

Its vivid shade may ever burn.