In the park, besides the puddles broken
afresh by new feet, I trace my name in the snow.
If only I could take it home; to cradle, to keep, to make it my own.

Three figures walk along the path:
Future leads
and Past tumbles behind,
and further back is Memory -
the stray hound that turns ivory yellow
and forever wanders directionless,
searching for it's caller,
nameless and alone.

I turn away.
The sun peaks around a sombre cloud,
brightening the snowdrops awake from their nap.
They are cold tears shed for the mellow minutes and the sinister hour,
sharp razors poking smiles through the snow.

© Eva Irvine