Owen said the flocks come feeling for our faces
Beyond the cold misty panes, cliché intended, the sky blackens
With suitable irony and down tumbles white upon white;
Who would have thought that absence held so much power?
We sit on in rooms looking with fear over the trees now
Sagging fit to break and shuddering air our hearts fear now
The trip to work, the shopping load the appointments missed
And is there beauty in this mess
Soon all will blacken, greying with sludge as the
Ploughs and gritters shift dust which drifted like ballerinas only days ago
To pile icy chunks by the wayside:
Such can be love.
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