The Cold Hour

curtains

After a long abscence, finally something...
As always all criticisms/suggestions/interpretations welcome and appreciated!!

The Cold Hour


A tinge of white,
The glaciated bedclothes,
The icicles on the frosted panes
Of my windows. Shards
That cut
The shivering silence,
The uneasy stiffness of the night.
Even now, Cepheus’ crown
Rests on my floor,
Crystal in this
Occult
Of the senses
A thin sliver of light,
Tentatively, it searches,
Gropes the far reaches
Of a fixed cross
On the verge of sight.
The thaw has come -
The morning sickle spills
Royal blood,
Dropping like sparks,
Spectral fires in the winter-light,
Like the remnants of a dream,
Intangible; dancing on the walls;
Shuddering crimson.
Their stain an opaque radiance,
Their arc a faint luminosity.
Map-pieces, torn from some grand design? Or
A flame to warm cold hands.

shiv

It has a quality I like, especially the beginning.
I think it would do for me if it was spaced or structured slightly different.
Just so you felt like you could take a breath.