Angels Are Channelling Solace Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Let the trees wear gold autumn tiaras.
Let these snowflake whispers of midwinter.
Fluttering like angels, they are channelling solace.
Let fissures open up an elixir.
Let us be salted, hung, dried, smoked & cured.
Let these magical powers intervene.
Puncture my heart, locked and immured.

Let me be redeemed; find my snow queen.
Live life amidst a never-changing scene.
Let it be frozen-white like quartz in stone.
Sculptor! Carve your immortal figurine.
Anklebones locked together, never windblown.
Marble ice statues, never melting, going nowhere.
Liquid fluid… yet—still, as a pole star.