Writing Workshop - a poem of cold things

In the street is cold and snow
still not slush, not ready to go
what once was grey is white and clean
but pigeons wonder what it means

scratching among the stranded cars
hoping for crumbs or fallen stars
they sit, dejected, fluffed, alone
a heap of flesh, of feathers, bone

a window view, a look without,
silent, still, no word no shout
but thought of others trapped in stone
where all is white, and all alone.

This poem written after gazing out of my window to the boring (and snowy) look of my car park and hearing on the radio the stories of Haiti, the dead children, the dust and the unimaginable loss.

Thanks to Josie for the prompt