More 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


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s