Snowy Morning

When we were nine or ten and used to play

at dying — hands clasped to the chest,

Goodbye, beautiful world, I love you!  —

we didn’t believe it could ever really be done.

Say goodbye to  everything ? A gunshot wound

in ‘Alias Smith and Jones’ could set us thinking —

please  please  don’t die — or a feathered mess

that had been a pigeon squashed on the road.

Even Divinity class, that final sponge of vinegar

on a speartip. Goodbye, beautiful vinegar.

Now, under the shag of decades, after so much

contact with things, it takes a morning like this.

Snow has fallen, a light crust. On the white field

green trails zigzag where the horses wandered,

a crazy scribble shows where they fed.

There they are now, two statues stooping.

All the ewes are sitting, thawing their grass.

Puddles crunch like caramel. Little snowfalls

crumble down a hedge. The silver-birch

trembles with its own twigs’ shadows.

And under the rusty chestnut I walk

through a rain of crystals. There isn’t much to say.

This is a day that decides by itself to be beautiful.

This field is a bride. How are we to say goodbye?