Oh that wind, that symphony
Of oboes wailing and moaning.
Snow in drifts high to the eves
Blowing, covering lanes leading
From iced village to iced village.
Telegraph wires and power lines
Bending under the dead weight
Of ice waiting for their moment
To snap. Shrieking horizontal
Wind piling snow on snow.
The road to the town cut off,
An umbilical cord snapped
In a white out of hill and sky.
Sheep buried with their lambs.
A community isolated and alone.
And nobody stirs from the darkening
Land as night’s cape begins to
Cover the earth with its shadow.
Only the oboes making their
Distinctive wailing sound.
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Comments about this poem (Snow Drift by David Wood )
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