It is snowing.
A downy grey sky of feather fall.
Heavy in my viscera, memory:
She, rowing opposite me, across
the London skyline.
Upon soft water, swans.
How happy, how loved. How
could it be
that I erased the slim lines of hope from the page?
The snow erases the worn lines of the world.
It was Chinese new year, a Sunday. Red lanterns hung like luscious ripe fruit above the bustling streets of Chinatown. Crowds of people gathered around writhing dragons and the clashing cymbals that were passing from business to business, to usher in the good fortune of the new year.
An icy wind flitted about the swarms of people, the night air was a chill electric blue.
I found warmth in the basement of a Soho eatery. And took in the soothing comfort of wine and food. The ice of outside was forgotten to the cosy drowse of contentment.
Later, climbing the stairs to leave, I came to see that the world had cocooned itself away, a pupae in virginal white, snow was falling densely in the london air.
Outside, Soho was empty and silent, an enchanted, slumbering world. The snow absorbing all sound. Footsteps crunched into the soft land, only to be forgotten by the new drifts.
The world seems innocent in the snow, a bride in her wedding dress. We are in wonder at her fragile beauty.
And, if a pupae, then spring is the butterfly that emerges from the silken shroud.