On our horizon there is a silent field;
dark, but becoming white and gentler.
Light is still unknown.
It has learnt the lover's caress of falling snow.  

The snow will not know it is white until our torches look-
but the stars wink down knowingly.
To the left of our field is hot cocoa and the hallway light under the door.
To the right of our field is Ali Baba's lantern and a thousand spangles on the sod.

The snow feels for our faces, each step offering no forgiveness.
Look- there is the nursery chair! and the solidness of the linen cupboard;
an owl screams his warning of dawn breaking.

To be loved is to be made warm;
to feel a fire in the grate.
To gaze through the panes at a silent field, and not yet know
the cold of freshly settled snow.