Streetlights glow softly tonight, oh such a simple delight,
Fleeting through the blurred streets, how quick my heartbeats,
Footsteps in snow; paired with faces aglow,
Pitter-pat they go,
Down in Trafalgar Square

A Nordic pine so fine, a true one of a kind,
Upon which one could not scribe such beauty in mere rhyme,
And you'll know it's the right time
When ears hear tunes of glee, eyes see sights carefree,
For it is the season of joy and celebration,
Down in Trafalgar Square

snowflakes
fall little by little,
this town becomes
whiter and whiter.

old memories
keep lingering in the air,
cold breeze
can never blow them away.

in her mouth
the snowflakes melt,
in her lungs
the bitterness overspreads.

old memories
are too precious
to be thrown,
yet too heavy
to be held.

snowflakes fall
little by little,
this town becomes
whiter and whiter.

people rush to home
with longing,
people stay at home
to keep warm.

leaving an empty street
with snow,
carrying love back home
but never the snow.

like my heart
the empty street is,
like my soul
the snow is.

The dry tundra calls to you
Whispering a phrase
A memory that flows
In between and through
The forest needle and pine
Something lies beyond
Far past the snow and sterile ice
Over the great mountains
The places of our birth
Nothing more than an inclination
That all we hope there to be
Has not yet been made know
That the secret hidden for ages
Has in turn hidden us within it
Preserving us in a way unseen
That when the time does come
In far flung ages hence
All things might be revealed
And the barren wastes
Turn to fruitful gardens

The ocean is not blue
The sky is
Who knew?
It was all our point of view
Clouds are not fluffy
Your eyes must be puffy
How would we know?
What exactly is snow?
Ice crystals that fall from a cloud
On to an unbothered crowd
~11/5/21

The streetlights are flashing
rhythmically in the winter evening
when fluffy snow pours
through the streets of our city.

The green grass disappears
as the landscape dynamically turns white.
For adults, this is another cold evening
and for the children is a time for rejoicing.

The fireplace warms our bodies
like the sun in the summer,
while the love of family and friends
brings delight to us all.

The paper white as snow,
Glistens in the light.
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
8.10, 8.12, 8.14, 8.16,
Still the paper sits there as white as snow
The paper is now dazzling in the light.
8.22, my biro pen slowly approaches,
A stroke and its done,
Tick, tock, tick, tock
Now a whole sentence sits on the page
‘Sara got on the 24 bus every Monday at 8am, as if it was second nature.’
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
Now a whole paragraph about Sara has come, screech, abruptly to a stop.



Thoughts swirl around my brain what does Sara do now?
What is next?
What was a story within a matter of minutes becomes notes
It essentially becomes academia on a story not written,
As the years pass, and the essays in the folder grow,
Sara becomes she.
As the terms fly by, the relationships happen or don’t happen,
Friendships begin and end, there are celebrations and commiserations,
Weddings and funerals.
She becomes me,
The words begin flowing out,
The stories plummet onto the page.
What was missing all along was the Sara is not she, she is a little bit me.
She could not be me, until I knew who me is or was.