Snow Came

The poet’s dream
has flesh and bone
soil and stream
brick and joist
until the moment
when, on waking
he finds articulation

It is vapour now
and dispersing
a story confounded
orphaned with a clang
by presumptuous daylight.

He draws the curtain
wipes a keyhole
in the condensation
and beyond the glass
lies a world
of swollen air
white with baffled noise
and sharpness calmed

purity, defiled only
by bloody carrion
near the briar patch
and the unnamed
dotted road, laid
by the padding rabbit
on its diurnal sally
to investigate
the shrivelled greens.

A little later, he will
wake the children, bask
in their gasping delight
but for now
it is a private viewing
invoking memories
of past snowfalls.

Who needs fickle dreams
when this is wakefulness?


3 thoughts on “Snow Came

  1. Julian. This poem is art and accomplishment in many dimensions. Word choices shine. Themes glow. The structure is perfectly designed and varied to carry the load. The reader (this one anyway) is borne through a faceted and changing mind that may be yours and also may be mine. Thank you very much. matthew

    Liked by 1 person

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