It’s raining cornflakes, brown and red,
So crisp they crunch beneath my feet.
Perhaps they’re waiting to be fed
To winter’s hungry, milk-white street.
They crackle in the frosty air
And trickle down, one under one,
As rain strips sugar-frosteds bare
And crispy-crunchies are undone.
—S.R. Holman, all rights reserved
Advertisements
