Snow Song

This white hide of snow,
this blood that, being yours,
ignites the snow. The flame of mothers
in car parks, betrayed.
A gunswail of cropped speech.
Whatever.

                  You & I
treat love as if you never
carry fully, talk at dinner.

The white hides the trees
among their early selves,
a bird tits & favours.

A lost female smell: now
the white hide is a lost male
full of blood.

Why position peasant imaginings?

Why get stoned dully on Christmas Eve?

Why death again?

The white hides its own.

© Jamie Bradley