Bright Miracle
BRIGHT MIRACLE
Snow is my dream-home miracle,
Always called to me, never cold.
Serene, soft, silent,
Soul-scoured, fresh, reposing -
Like the sound and pure spray
Of flowing water over a low weir.
White tabula rasa submerging
Hard sharp corners; edges are softened.
World suddenly transformed, renewed, unspoiled:
Long-sought Eden garden
From the child-dreams I was forbidden to enter
By the guards: the teachers, the church, the grandma,
And other cold dark forces
Choking my green growth.
Dowdy fields, old trees, and dirty walls -
Freshly-baptised converts to pure brightness:
Industrial dumps, rusted hulks,
Row upon row of soulless cellars,
In a mantle white from the fairytale shapes
Of a Dickens scene on a Christmas card.
I feel small again in snow, always did:
Impossible become possible: childhood regained.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
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