First snow

After decadence
comes the first snow.

Nothing luxuriates now.

A new sharpness
gives an edge to the barking dog,
and birdsong is suddenly lost in coldness,
insignificant against a pregnant sky.

I will let winter atone for my decay
and slice cleanly through the horror,
leaving me cleansed, rinsed, drained of habit,
clear-eyed, moist-lipped,
tingling.



I should have taken a photo of the first snow. It melted before I got round to it. So you've got my little draft book instead. I feel like I've taken a picture of myself naked. It's quite a personal little tome.