Waking to snowfall
The light was a white surprise
Coming up from the ground
Shadowless and the wrong way round.
Sun had not yet pulled its curtains,
Stayed in the shade, not looking at
The white palaces the clouds had made
Overnight while we slept.There were
Crystals on twigs,
Stalactites on rose hips.
There were mounds and layers
And puddings and tablecloths and carpets
Of whiteness
On every unsuitable surface.
A broderie anglaise of birds' feet
The only delicate decoration
In the frosty fancy
Until the first car churned a double wake
The silent length of the soon to be
Snowballed street.
Vivien Foster
No comments:
Post a Comment