Snow. Much snow. Ice. A cottage.
The small gnomes were digging underground
their tiny spades shining in the lamplight.
The world of fairy stories. And I turned
another page. The whole alphabet
was lovely icicles, needles. You were there
whitely lying on a white bed.
There was a crown of blossom on your hair
syringes rings, blue Icelandic nurses.
The small crystal radios were hung
among reindeer, birches, bearish furs.
The cottage crumples slowly. It is going
down to a white plate like blancmange.
The gnomes are digging busily. I see
their neon spades flickering, their hands
are small and yellow. In reality
I turn another page, crackling like ice.
Oh love how long ago it all was.
The white earth is pleading with black heaven
demanding justice, demanding more than justice.