Trees emerging from monochrome as strange
as Ediacarans looming from pre-Cambrian silt
cold anticipations of blind hilltops on the way
and then as the mist ragged the snow revealed!
Snow clods on the clodded, snow tufts on the tufted field
snow contour lines, articulations of the underlying texture
snow slates on cottage roofs and the mist curling
snarly, snaggy and dirtied in the valley sumps.
The hills clear tracts of the very Testament of Snow;
and yet... and yet... between the plunge back into
a low obscurity, the ride up the next wave of ridges
it had cleared completely, just a ditch edge
rubbly remnant, or sprinkled beneath a cold orchard
beloved of persistent ghost or wuthering eddy.
Ah but we picked our walk with Joe well, drove
up into crusted country, down to a rushing stream
cavorting like sporting horses, kicking white heels,
the stream that is, not us, who plodded by, well,
Joe and one carer already fifty yards ahead...
and up secluded road with cattle grid,
ascending
to a prospect with thoughtful memorial bench
for Joe to be plonked on and I spied with: "S"
"Snow." "Well done Joe!" "And sheep!" "Yes. Yes."
There they are, up near the skyline, dark snow-less
bumps. And here we are, the moment kindled in our eyes,
as if Jack Frost himself had flung the snowball.
.......................
Yes, my pic of view from bench.
Jack Frost, here referring to the selfsame character in the children's DreamWorks animation 'Rise of the Guardians', one of Joe's favourites, not long since.
