And squeezes out its human woe
Into a tear of ice in the wind;
And the wintry suburban station,
Crouching on a black embankment,
Mourns for the extinguishing lights
Of the time-kept city below –
There is a footprint in the snow.
When
I wander through the unswept streets
With
a pocketful of handbills and sweet-wrappers;When the political cries and pleasure cries
Die vainly on the night –
I wake in a holly-dark wood
With the wind’s razor across my cheek,
The city become a pile of stones –
There is a footprint in the snow.
When
I stand in the crematorium garden,
Counting
the names on rose trees,Disturbing the iron earth with my foot;
When I consider the passing of seconds,
Feeling the crease spread in my skin,
And the stain blacken my eye;
When my hand forms questions in the freezing air –
There is a footprint in the snow.
The
field-worm pushed a grain to the crib,
Its
winter store and offering;The Christ-child smiled and touched its head
Sharing His brilliance with the glow-worm;
I would warm myself at the glow of winter berries,
And think on the candle flickering in a twilit transept;
O, may the stranger turn in the door –
Footprints and footprints in the snow.
====================
© September 1979