The two old men sitting

The two old men sitting on the park bench
look in opposite directions
across the scuffled snow.
Both have hats, neither wears gloves.
Scarves are tucked into overcoats.

Their hands must be cold
and their feet too in the thin leather shoes.

Then they turn and look towards each other;
their eyes smile
and their fingers touch.
The ice-blue air is suddenly less bitter.

Tomorrow they will be here again.

Footprints

The pairs of footprints began in parallel

Sometimes overlapping in the overnight snow

I traced them across the dips and hollows

From where I stood next to the hilltop tree

On the last ascent to the cliff edge they parted

Until they each disappeared alone

I watched and waited until the last light faded

And the snow returned and covered the tracks

I held ice tight

I held ice tight in my hand
water trickled from my fist
to my forehead

Then my hand was empty
but my fist remained
blood frozen in its veins

I rubbed knuckles on my eyes
my heart drum noised
my temples throbbed

All memories swirled in snow
all memories swirled
in snow