The trees are sad skeletons

Suffocated by snow.

Dragging the branches

Or curving them upward

Like frozen fingers

Beckoning.

 

And you, my love.

If I stretched out

My cold hands,

Would you rise to meet me?

Or hang your limp limbs.

Defeated by the weight

Of something like snow.

 

By Fiona Lochhead     Sept 2012

Advertisements