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Snow in Summer - golden shovel
I pop a little white moon from the packet of fifty
as pain's tidal wave pulls at the shoreline of me and springs
a summer of shocks, where words and their smiles are
the only saving antidotes I've got. I'm taking little
glass-spun breaths in an airless hospital waiting room,
rereading the same line in an asinine magazine article about
the cost of living crisis. Do they know anything of the
true cost of life? Or being lost in the white-weighted woodlands
of snow-spun death? Maybe a slow-spun death, as I
find myself counting down months with a will
to write out all that I am, whenever I can. Whenever I go
will I see these little white numbing moons turn to
blood-sticky maroon: a sweltering melt of pain? Will I see
the sweet and the sweat become sour by the hour? The
heat-glazed day now turns its whole gaze on this tiny red cherry
ripening by my right nipple. Their voices freeze out and I'm hung
by the rope of impossible hope, as the sonograph probes with
the cruellest finger of winter, and I'm numbed by sudden snow.
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
A.E. Housman - Loveliest of Trees
Copyright ©
Charlotte Puddifoot
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