Again I found some free writing in a note book and have worked it up into a poem of a sort. This is I think a prose poem, and as you can tell was written a few months ago when we had thick snow fall, snow poems are always so tricky what with there being so many famous ones like Louis Macneice’s and then a remember a poem by someone else referencing that poem as its so famous… sigh. However if we decided not to write poems on a subject because another poet has already done it there would be no poetry at all and certainly no love poetry and then where would be all be? reciting Shakespearian sonnets or even Sappho scraps to our lovers? so here goes:
Her breath dragons, fresh snow beneath each penguin walk bootstep she knew from previous winters that these imprints would last, be over laid by more of her own and others: larger, trainer tire tread, pointed, square toed, doll like, a negative of those printed directions for the foxtrot.she can discern little relation to the owner of the footsteps, wondered what makes such blurring the lizard brain walking home a knee holed drunk or an old beetroot barneted woman who lost her stick on the bus her own remain startling and sphinxlike. It is living in the outskirts that makes these journeys lay so long on the ground, were she in the town centre salt and tramping of hundreds of thousands of bustling business men, laconic students, the thin soled unemployed and the shuffling, straggling tourists would slush it. how horrid it is when it snows in the city, old soap powder she recalls snowfall on fields where the snow is perfecting, lux.