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?

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