Poetry: A snow poem
as requested by Mr Tim Rich. It's a first draft, so be gentle.
The exaggerated courtesies
Heavier now, I drift towards the window.
I am amused by the exaggerated courtesies
the salt is showing me – he laid out
his gritty beige carpet before I arrived.
How did he know I was coming? I wouldn't have
flapped for him, if our hospitalities were reversed.
Still, I am mesmerised by the promise I contain,
that everything can be still, simple, new again.
But then, nostalgia for the first time is a luxury
that only affects the feeble-fated, something I seem
to bring out, especially in the populace of the southeastern
corner of this grumbling isle. For your information,
I am not an adverse condition, I am the best thing
that happens at this time of year.
Labels: poetry snow