All the snowy day  the woodcutter

smashed his axe into hardwood

and piled  the chunks at my door

knowing the sin of splicing mahogany

and feeding it to sparks uneasily coaxed

from fire-lighters, cardboard and ply.


All the snowy day I sat at the window

permitting the flakes to land

on the roof of my car as a duvet,

goosefeather and down, 13 tog ,

allowing the fire to wind around

rectangular logs in illicit flames.  






2 Comments Add yours

  1. Hey, really like this. Something about woodcutters that’s so fairytale so such a lovely contrast with the duvet wearing car. Snow poetry rocks, nearest I’ve come so far is my polar bear, perhaps there’s still time though! x:)

  2. pamthompsonpoetry says:

    Thanks, Lyds! More snow poems from you, I think! The blasted stuff’s still here so we might as well make use of it.:O

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