Three hippies from the garden centre cross the
bridge,
Looking like seconds on a shelf of messiahs.
I play with the stream waiting for word sounds
to flow.
Like the rust-flanked redwings on my snowy lawn
Ripping the berries from the cotoneaster,
Will word shapes discover my white sheet of
paper?
Like verse rhyming through a halo of high
rigging,
Snowflakes float down through an umbrella of
lamplight,
Swirl like dreams into a dizzying bell of
white.
Some drift down and frost the river for a
second.
I want words to tongue-stick to my glacier of
brain.
Blaze ink! Lick, pen, this iced page with your
tongue of fire!
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