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.