Path Clearing

Your glove squeaked round and cleaned the frost-fogged glass
Into a porthole on your campaign plan:
Shovel snow, create humped-backed laboured peaks,
Unleash the excavated path of green
Hibernating grass, a tunnel sanctioned
By a Met Office’s dismal warning
And our lack of bread and easy company.
I busied myself indoors while you dug
The blade deep, slicing apart, throwing up high
What stood in your way, sculpting escape
From your desperate will to be gone.
I listened, drank tea, wondered how long
It would be till your car coughed goodbye
And thaws would dissolve your mountains and us.

 

 

David Riley

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