first the snow capped mountains
then the sky and sea
turn smoky pink -
people linger on the Esplanade
her donkey, close behind her
carries olive branches in his pannier
carries her pace, her rhythm -
the first drops of rain begin to fall
Light Flurry of Snow
Grey sky – of an even dullness
so it looks flat
as a well-painted tin plate.
Like winter again I say to the bus driver -
oh – the last flurry before spring he says
as if he was announcing the name
of a stop on the way -
even a destination -
a ticket for Last Flurry please -
if that's as far as you are going
though I'd really rather alight at Spring.
He has light blue, sky-keeper eyes.
Snow turns to sleet
as we ride on the tail-end
of Last Flurry.