The dark sapphire sky
Is shrouded with a sullen
Blanket of grey.
Fat snowflakes,
Each one unique,
Like a fingerprint,
Drift slowly
Down to earth.
They settle
On naked trees,
Or, blown by the breeze,
Soften the thorns
On hedgerows.
They weave a white blanket
To give warmth
To sleeping rodents.
In a nearby cottage
Children sit by bright lit windows,
To watch such wonder.
Imagining the delights
Of the morrow,
Portly snowmen
With coal black eyes,
And pointed orange noses.
In the city,
Huddled in an empty bus stop,
Sits desolation.
Watching the snowflakes
Drift to earth,
And merge with the grime,
Becoming grey,
And black.
He stretches out,
Shakes his empty bottle of warmth
And hurls it at no one.
He pulls his worn coat
Over his head.
By morning
He is stiff,
And dead.
The Bishop kneels
By his soft bed
And prays to his God,
To keep his soul safe
Until morning.
Light years away deep in the Cosmos
A voice asks,
Is this experiment working??
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
