SNOW, 3 a.m.
Heads filled
with whisky,
we sway along
the whispering streets;
folds of snow
tucked round us,
clean sheets
on a sharp night.
Flakes,
the words
we spill,
float from our mouths.
Traffic lights blink on
long afer the last ghostly car
has crashed
past us
and our families sinking,
sleeping in the deep
drifts of dreams
we carelessly trample underfoot.
This is a land of ice,
of soft light.
A friend guides me to his house,
unveils a bookshelf thick
with fallen thought,
proudly points out
a white and virgin son.
The snow dragged in
with us
melts
between the seconds
of the ticking clock.
We pour out
another whisky,
thaw out,
a slurred path
across paper.
KEITH ARMSTRONG,
Reykjavik.
