More Snow

Snow

The field is in its element: confetti
knee-, neck-deep. As rain is the applause
of the sky, so this is delirious

burning in cold light: a hyper-tide
of breathing. Skies vanish
in warm breath-banks, opacity

of words and, quarried from cloud,
whole speeches of snow furring
the soft map of earth. Into the storm-

lines, shot with frozen stars
a blurred outline
moves ahead, out of earshot,

lugging his bag of instruments
to the car. The snow-gods follow
his footprints, filling them in,

effacing words. Silence.
His visits always end this way,
speaking completely leached

into dazzling whiteness:
an open contract unfolding.
So complete, in fact, the silence,

that after darkness falls
the white gloom goes on smouldering
with what there is left to say.

David Musgrave

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