VILLON

Bare Birch filigree
Grey green and silvery,
Etched stilly
On an ever moving sky

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Blue so bright, so pure, so light
Veiled in a minute
With a chiffon white.

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Grey, grey, grey

Puff powdered every hour
And peach cumuli.

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The feathery tips of firs
Caressed and dressed.
Graced and be-frilled and be-furbellowed ...
With snow.

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I crunch round the lake
Onto a little bridge
And stand in the sun.

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Closing my eyes . .

They are suffused
With slowly swirling purple and ochre
Marbling together,
Set with tiny, winking, tilted tiles
Of holographic brilliance
In Indigo ice.

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I thought it was a dead landscape out there
Beyond my hotel window.
Now for the first time for a week
I hear natural voice -
Bird song and Dog bark.

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The Silver Birch Clump
Is so perfect
And I feel my body and spirit
Relax into touch with Mother Earth.

Tears fall with relief
At her embrace.

I venture towards a snowy slope
That descends into a thicket
And wonder if my son and I 
Could slide down on it on a tray? 

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The crescendo and diminuendo 'saw'
Of vehicles on the icy highway
Disturbs the peace of natural sounds ...
Oh bliss! - when they are far, far gone
Out of aural awareness
And I can only hear
The little insistent wind
Buffeting about my ears.