Ice cream snow. Greying roofs can see no flakes
from empty desks, nor folded blinds. But still
They linger on woody awnings, and make
Sweet dessert of snapping trees.
You know the office has its flavour too,
a dry punnet of berries, tambour unit
topped with dusty cakes, a banana blue
and green and shy with the cold.
But no beachball lemons. No starred sorbet
Which, white on a bud of stone, lights your way
From day to dance class, sleeping only when
Traffic steps and stirs its wheels.
Winter fruit on lingon-night, and pining
Fir forest; dusk in lemon misty moon,
Paper-plain dawns, and your murmurs, longing
And laughing at deer on a dark hill.
Jezknee 