On these exhausted slopes
The snow has lain three days now in clear light,
Mottled on roofs, dragged to roll thick in launders,
In gardens clotted, on clay fields
Spread like a pelt.
Out of the valley floor
Close by a ramp where hoppers lurch
The red-lead girders of a half-built factory
Jut under sketched white lines
Ominous and bare.
And on the hill behind
The snow-scarves tear on red clay knuckles,
On dull walls strung like wagons,
And tile-red peaks
Despondent in the dry white element.