Jack Frost

Silver Jack Frost glistens,
Like snow on a mountain top,
His chilly white icicles shimmer,
As they take over the grass stems,
As silver as the moon,
Coming out to play.

Mists hang,
Over the hills and valley,
Until we are left with low cloud,
Over ruling us,
Like the king of Egypt.

Midday is nearing,
Mr Jack Frost is disappearing.