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SNOW, NEW POEM

 

Snow

 

In Hampstead for Warfarin blood tests

I meet a lady with a cane at coffee after

who lives near Keats' house,

whose mother knew Louis MacNeice;

 

whose husband, post-pacemaker,

jumps from helicopters to ski;

and I recite to her the poem 'Snow'

about the sudden world, particular,

 

indivisible, and we speak of books,

how at Easter, she hides them

in her garden for her grandchildren,

like chocolate eggs; and then she leaves;

 

and I reflect on the world of strangers,

the world of blood, atomic, riven,

how this April the coldest winds are

being driven to us from Russian forces;

 

how the white snow looks like surrender

being torn up into a polyglot roar

of refusal, anger, and civilian defiance;

how I am thankful to the invisible maybe

 

of creation for more hours in this flurry

of experiences, talking, being vulnerable,

less dead than I could be, than others are,

as snow unseasonably becomes real.

 

 

April 1, 2022

Hampstead, London

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