Midwinter

Entranced, you turn again and over there
It is white also. Rectangular white lawns
For miles, white walls between them. Snow.
You close your eyes. The terrible changes.

White movements in the corner of your room.
Between your hands, the flowers of your quilt
Are stormed. Dark shadow smudge
Their faded, impossible colours, but won't settle.

You can hear the ice take hold.
Along the street
The yellow drifts, cleansed by a minute's fall,
Wait to be fouled again. Your final breath
Is in the air, pure white, and moving fast.

Ian Hamilton, Cinquenta Poemas, Nuno Vidal (Trad.), Livros Cotovia, 1995.