Never needing an invitation,
they'd pop in when least expected,
dart and flit from post to beam.
Bold Lilliputian apparitions
made themselves at home
on the borders of our dreams.
Peering down at us, curious,
perhaps slightly bemused,
wrens took our measure;
as we, slothful behemoths,
under woolly winter robes,
snuffled for rare treasure.
Bed-headed newlyweds, amazed,
emerged blinking under interloper's gaze,
duly honoured by impromptu visitation.
YOU ARE READING
The Smell of Snow
PoetryFrom my home on a tiny island, I smell snow as it begins to fall on the mountains across Baynes Sound. A smell that goes directly up your nostrils with a slight hint of metal or ozone, a bit like refrigerant. And of course I love to confirm my sense...
