By Bart Wolffe

Periodically stepping outdoors,

(Well, to the edge of the patio through the glass door


To light up another home-roll,

Suck in the silence of the snowfall

And count the inches creeping upward

In their white ascension.

No buses pass by. The trains don’t run.

The road devoid of noise,

Not even birds seem to sing

A song to disturb the hush.

My toes are cold in their slippers,

Socks have holes.

I sit. Time doesn’t tick,

It hovers like a snowflake

Before settling into the white approaching night.

The garden birch is star-studded. A crystal chandelier upended.

Frost-flaked with filigree and tracery, the tender twigs

In their wintering dormancy decorated with delight.

The silversmith has worked his trade well

And hammered out against the frost a pale web across the sky.

Icing from above, all garden blooms its winter wedding bells

Mutely, deaf an untold voiceless sigh.

The eye spies only one, complete whitewashed word of it.

A world of frozen milk, a sherbet of sugar dust,

A sure sign of the anaesthetist doing his work

Numbing the world’s new canvas

Pending Spring’s scalpel to cut the ice

And paint the green blood upon

The unbandaged skin of earth once more.

In the morning, the foxes will have left their imprints,

A printed pattern crossing over the frozen waste.

I blow white clouds once more by the patio door

Before I bid goodnight.

[Click this link to get to Bart’s Lulu shop front, and to a book of his which can be downloaded for free.]


POSTED 06.01.10 BY: paulabbott | Comments (1)

One Response to “SNOWFALL IN SURREY”

  1. On January 11th, 2010 at 4:35 am Ciona said:

    This is nice. I will have to check out Bart's book. Thanks.

    I don't know anything about the moot community, but I'm certainly glad I've found this blog. I've read some lovely entries thus far.