I paint the scene with my pen,
Branches lie under a blanket of snow,
Giving birth,
White fingers,
Filled with dripping diamonds,
Swans drift like tiny boats
In the calm waters,
Suddenly they take flight,
Turning the still into havoc,
I hear the sound of flutter,
As they climb over Abbey Bridge;
Small birds dig for food,
The wood is covered with white footprints
Two girls walk by,
Talking of a good night out,
Do they see what I see?
