Progression
I
from the bedroom, he sees a brigade of snow
V
through a streetlamp’s mottled brights, a
cheap party moon that hangs in the streamers
and calls it winter. Warm in a marriage bed,
blankets clamouring like ancient choirs,
he thinks of cinnamon drinks, white-capped cars,
IV
and not of the boy he saw today in the market.
A young lad, pencilled up in a doorway,
shaking the geography from his coat.
And now, the snow coming down,
VI
cladding the glass, aluminium sheets,
skimmed milk white, along a street
that turns up its thermostats. He thinks to
check the window locks but doesn’t.
Turning to sleep, he thinks of hot chocolate;
the crispness of a fire.
(first published in The New Writer)
Rebecca Bird was born in 1991 and is the co-editor of Hinterland. She is currently living and working in Leicestershire. Follow her on Twitter @thisisthebird
andotherpoems.com 