Winters at home brought wind, black frost and raw
Grey rain in barbed-wire fields, but never more
Until the day my uncle rose at dawn
And stepped outside to find his paddocks gone
His cattle to their hocks in ghostly ground
And unaccustomed light for miles around
And he stopped short, and gazed lit from below
And half his wrinkles vanished murmuring, "Snow"
A man of farm and fact, he stared to see
The facts of weather raised to a mystery
White on the world he knew and all he owned
"Snow? Here?" I see
High time I learned
Here, guessing what he meant had much to do
With that black earth dread old men are given to
He stooped to break the sheer crust with delight
At finding the cold unknown so deeply bright
At feeling his prints so softly deep
As if it thought he knew enough to sleep
Or else so little he might seek to shift
Its weight of wintry light by a single drift
Perceiving this much, he scuffed his slippered feet
And scooped a handful up to taste, and eat
In memory of the fact that even he
Might not have seen the end of reality
Then, turning, he tiptoed in to a bedroom, smiled
And wakened a murmuring child and another child
