Snow simplifies the world.
Where before there was trees,
Brambles, rolling hills and
Plunging cliffs, there is now only
White. Endless, flowing white.
Homes are unrecognisable.
Lives are either full of joy and warm fires,
Or cold and hunger -
Black and white.
The forest stretches on.
The ice laden branches seem to be
Holding up the sky itself.
Flakes drift slowly downwards,
Appearing from the endless clouds only
Moments before the ground.
Birds slip suddenly out of the haze,
Only to vanish just as quickly, before
The eye has truly realised their presence.
This is a place of conflict; snow,
Soft as a deathbed, and pale as an old memory,
And trees, crooked as caring hands, and
Dark as a lingering nightmare.
But there - what's that?
A patch of texture unlike any other here,
Huddled at the base of a bare and brittle tree,
A handful of green shoots, and a trio of
Bowing flowers, barely distinguishable from
The surrounding snow.
But it is enough. Suddenly, snow banks
Are clusters of plants, or parked cars,
And trees are dotted with buds.
Colour becomes more than a vague memory-
You remember the kingfisher, a
Flash of startling, joyful blue,
And the heron, solemn grey.
The snow stops falling,
And the world starts turning.
YOU ARE READING
A Song To The Dawn
PoetryJust a few poems. ... Until he stood at its highest peak, Without hesitation he leapt And flew as the sparrow does, Coasting on invisible winds and Delicate wings, in ups and downs, Like waves And the water crashed upon the shore, Pebbles rolling...
