Snow Poem by Emlyn Wentwhistle

I'm watching snow melt on trees
from the window of a room
turned reliquary,
harbouring the bones
of our beligerent silence.

Unseasonably cold.
The weather forecast speaks
with its usual retrospective certainty.
A Grande Armee
of bristling spring shoots
cruelly halted in its tracks.

Now, in penitential haste,
snow falls to earth in clumps
and disappears.

I'm waiting for that thaw
where snow
never should have fallen.