Jack Frost.

Ravens rummaging for treasured fruits,
in caves of white conceal their loot.
A tinsel wrapped Dolly, bells ding-a-ling,
imagination thrives on golden wings.

Autumn’s empty room
powdered with ghostly-strange snow,
twigged pendants, lit crystal chandeliers, 
coated with sprawling Arctic sleet.
I taste copper from ice-boxed clouds
as silent icicles are honoured by the silver orbed moon...
it’s aluminium flame ripples with Angel fire.

Mr Frost kicks scarlet berries here! There!
Squashed to sludge by this sprite-like being...
Sipping lychee flavoured liquor,
freezing shadows with a gossamer spangled wand,
gurning a raspberry- ripple smile,
lips smothered in Mistletoe mulch,
Polar Polo-mint molars crunch Candy cane walking sticks.
Eyes peridot green beneath flake sprinkled brows,
cheeks papier-mâché grey,
chin... iceberg-blue, nose...sharp as a glass arrow. 
Saffron tongue licks sweet glazed popsicles
dipped in cinnamon-lemon swash.

Creeps up on daisy-chained faerie folk,
blows cold kisses up their knickers.
Encases happy Gnomes in blocks of ice,
mummifies frogs beneath platinum sheets.
Stained glass windows etched, 
magnified with his white mascara.
Two Turtle Doves, thieved from 
Twelve Days of Christmas, by Goblin pals...
now glisten under solar-silver stars.
Cosmos coloured moonbeams crackle in lazy night sky,
spilling hues rocket earthwards 
turning puddles into an artist’s palette,
frozen by Jack’s breaking wind of freeze.

The Owl hoots dawn’s approach,
beyond that time he can’t encroach...
So flit!... flee! Devious spirit,
back to your white-sewn sea.