The Sound of Snow
I wrote this a few years ago for a collection, The Immanent Moment, but it seems topical! I love the sound of snow…
The Sound of Snow
falling on snow.
A deepening silence.
The city is still,
platforms empty,
roads unburdened
of their incessant freight.
Trees, shuddering in the wind,
exfoliate ice blossom.
There’s probably a word,
in a culture accustomed
and observant of its nuances,
for this kind of snow.
Powdered crystal
over softer layers –
a cake of ground glass –
impossible to roll
into a snow torso,
like making dough
without water.
Churned up by
excited scurryings,
sledge runs,
snowman trails,
the moulds of dog noses,
bird feet runes.
Squeaking polystyrene
under boots,
like some cheap special effect.
To find a snow-field
unmarked by man –
to be the first
to place one’s foot
on virgin regions.
To make one’s mark
and to know it is
the original.
Prototype,
not pirated,
Nth generation
loss of definition.
Not to follow
in the blurred footfalls of others,
but to be the pioneer,
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