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And now slopes in this sad white creature: Snow,
blotting out your long fields, so early wrapped
in sunless chill this year – and soon, I know,
I’ll lose all trace of you, though I have mapped
that daily trail along our gated paths and hedges
we walked together, wind against our backs.
But snow blanks out Autumn to its edges,
its tight, cruel clench killing me in your tracks.
Iced clumps, hoisted on grass banks, stand apart –
pale fists, raised high, declare their frozen strength,
mightier now than your frail arrested heart.
You, beneath the bare white shock, stretch your length.
Absence limps through soft depth. How long it stays.
You’re lost beyond an ice age of fled days.