Snow from Ebury Ward
Each snowflake is a minute of detainment,
filing the air with falling measures of time,
not settling, but hitting the ground to melt,
like wasted hours, sectioned for losing one’s mind.
Sometimes the wind eddies the snowflakes upwards
and they take longer to sink, as moments stall,
like the sensation that time is going backwards,
that we’re forgotten and no hope’s left at all.
But somewhere in me there is still delight
to see each snowflake, as in a Midland’s winter.
And though down south it doesn’t stick, the sight
of snow in March give us a white Easter.
By lunchtime there’s no trace, but half a day
has been ticked off the time I’ll spend away.