In Response to Conrad Aiken’s Silent Snow, Secret Snow
The winter is quiet,
Muffled by the snow and frostbite.
Feet crush the flakes into hard slippery ice.
The peace when the road is closed,
Cannot be likened to anything else.
You stay wrapped up in jumpers and blankets,
Sipping hot cocoa and mulled wine.
The silence grows stronger.
The clock that beat out as loud as a human heart,
Is now a whisper;
And the creaks that were cackling screams,
Are now forced shut.
Trapped, you sit and watch the flakes,
Falling, dancing downwards.
They spiral and spin drawing you close to them.
With no television or radio,
The house is quite still.
Even your hums seem silenced,
As if a pillow is being held against your face.
