Song Of A White Sky

Two types of snowdrops shiver in the slippery breeze: the shy droplets and the belled petals, striped with green.

Icy, the breeze slides.

Nipped fingers pull the wool of the warm scarf, cosy up fragile flesh.

Cold mud, under the tread of the boots, plasticized: tracks that draw the eye to the gate of the field where the old barn squats.

To the gate, and pull the squealing bolt and find here, white as winter flora, open sky: wide open sky.