Invincible summer |||

The snow, now fallen

Ou sont les nièges d’antan?

François Villon

All sixty summers long the unseen snow, 
drawn in and out of a smoke-grey cloud, 
hung in the warm tides of his breath. 

It settles now, softly as a shadow 
along the locked length of his lung. 
Snow, falling, weightless, muffles 
air and masks a quiet sun. 

His old house creaks and suffocates 
oppressed by every summer’s snow, now fallen. 
The winter ticks beside a coughing fire. 
The sky is falling slowly, flake by flake. 

No one can dig him out. 
Before spring’s avalanche of breath, the rot 
and timber in his chest will break beneath 
the cliff crouched on the roof, and loose 
that terrible abundance, death.