The Darkest Days – Jack Frost

While researching into Jack Frost, I found out that if you didn’t praise the art he left on the window panes, you’d have to face his wrath…which could involve being led astray in sub zero temperatures. This led me to create the following poem. It’s a very rough first draft, so please bear with me! I have every intention of fleshing it out. Also, please excuse the formatting. For some reason, WordPress won’t let me post it as it was originally laid out.

Jack Frost

It was only yesterday

that the pumpkin’s face fell in,

and we supped the last

of the harvest soup.

Now, the word is going round

that Jack Frost is creeping close.

We’re to expect him soon.

Tonight, he’ll pass by our house,

scratch his mark on each window pane.

I must check the bolts

and latches before nightfall,

for he’s known to try and find a way in.

In the morning, before the fire

is crackling in the hearth,

we must gather at the windows,

marvel at his craftsmanship.

For every morning of winter,

we must stand in awe of the frost.

The year before last,

folk came who didn’t know our ways.

They cleared their windows,

once, twice, thrice.

We warned them,

we said Jack would strike.

At best, he’d take their noses,

fingertips, toes.

At worst, he’d lead them out

into the cold, never to come home.

They called us mad simpletons.

One night, a blizzard pummeled the village.

Old Farmer Jed said he saw

Jack lead them out of their house

– the mother, the father,

two daughters, two sons.

He said the door was left

swinging on its hinges,

that it creaked all night

over the scream of the wind.

The whole village searched the fields

the following morning.

It was my children who called

the words ‘found them.

‘They were naked,

laid out in the shape

of a hexagon.

Gone were their fingertips,

noses and toes.

Jack Frost will leave his mark tonight,

praise him, praise him, praise him.

3 thoughts on “The Darkest Days – Jack Frost”

  1. I like, if ironically, the visceral quality of your story. Makes the folklore real and the horror more engaging. It seems I heard about Jack Frost’s work on windows, maybe from my mother or someone of her generation.

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