fine snow

sky mist, ephemeral
- filling the blocks
of footprints

mortal transience
has stepped this way,
socked it with shadows

sky mist, ephemeral
- and the prints

are gone

head of steam

a scoop on a stick,
gloved hands, thick coat
and a great head of steam

but I am no railway,
simply the un-stoker
of snow on a deck

news from the sky

they are flake whispers

from places, times


events washed, evaporated
maybe even dashed

and some
are heavier
than they look

Village hill

a tyred labour,
seasonal rubber
from warmer places

there may be a key,
but not to this door