SNOW IN THE CITY

by

Ronald G. Auguste

(For my wife, Anita)

The snow invaded London New Year's eve,
Routing the drabness with a holy whiteness;
Made me forget the day was one to grieve,
And lured me out to frolic in the brightness.

The morning was like linen, starched and crisp.
The snow, like cirrus fallen from the sky,
Mantled the chimneys, each breathing a wisp
Of smoke that vanished like a vapourous "I".

Snow sanctified the roof-tops, and the trees
Bowed with its splendour like garlanded girls.
Where any drifts lay light, a bitter breeze
Raked them like Autumn leaves, in silent swirls.

London, transfigured in a gilt of snow,
Gleamed in the glory of the New Year's sun,
Flaunting its freshness in a radiant glow!
The snow would turn to ice, crack like a gun

Beneath the rape of cruel tramping feet,
Within a day or two -- but now it slept
In gathered folds upon each city street,
So beautiful, that watching it, I wept.

I wept for beauty taintless and divine;
And, afterwards, I wept a little more,
Because I knew, beyond Atlantic brine,
A golden sun had risen on the shore

Of my small Island, and there everywhere
People were getting ready to begin
The New Year revels with riotous cheer!
They would get drunk on happiness' gin.

Christmas had come, leaving me numb and cold,
Chilled by a lack of good-will to most men,
Yearning for Yuletides I had known of old --
I thawed in snow, and I loved London then.

At Brockwell Park, watching small birds alight
To eat the crumbs some kindly hearts had sown
In snowy fields, my heart bloomed in delight
Such flowers of peace as I had seldom known.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at From where I was born and raised
by: Francis Duggan
from: Wonthaggi, Victoria, Australia

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