Frank Ormond

White snow on black branches
Shades the old house from moonlight
Cold ash on burnt matches
Are what remains of the fire’s light

Moving inside, some rustle sounds
The only light blue and red
As the policeman makes his rounds
To find nothing alive, all of it dead

White snow on black rooftop
Hides the darkness from within
The peaceful night has its stop
As what remains from sin

This poem was inspired by seei