Dear Steven,

You know the snow
and this is the snow,
with your ever wistful attention
to the slow sailing flakes
of thoughts,
you fix to the page
the ephemeral greys
of the snowflakes

as they are light in light,
dark in shadow,
silhouetted in the contrasts
swirled into the gutters
and car parks of cities
to bed down the dust
in its non existence,
before melting
into nothingness.

Magical as aye Ann.