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Snow Boy

I saw you were divine,
that being before my eyes, holy.
In the dull atmosphere of an earthly black hole,
they are shuffling, mining the coal in his eyes,
his tangerine nose.
Were this a snowman brought in from the cold?
Warmed up, overheating, the shadow cast grey
sheets of ice over feet of clay.
His dark muslin scarf, covered over the crack
in his forehead, dwarfed like a rabbit
or strange nebula white
as an albino stray pigeon,
the snow boy sank in the ground,
the being divine, bolt upright, holy,
lifted his hands up for a prayer like a rosary,
under the dew where the frost laid bare.
The snow boy grew long lank hair, brown as ashes,
smudged like rubbed out wood-smoke, burnt charcoal
left by the fire at Christmas time.
The snow boy divine under the tree and the star shone down
Then a deep freeze, up-to his knees.
He reached for a mirror, the broken ice crushed,
he saw who he was,
a snow boy, young Jack Frost

About Geraldine Ward

Geraldine Ward has been writing and performing various forms of poetry and prose from an early age, and is a regular contributor at the London Farrago Poetry Slam nights. She has published a number of books including the "Now" collection, and has featured in other publications including Katie Metcalfe's "Beautiful Scruffiness" series of magazines.


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