"The Sound of Snow Clouds"


We collude with the road, agree to its hypnosis.
Oppose it. Pull up at the start of a farm track -
in the time it takes to stretch your arms
you're given the clouds for wishing
on their slow, soft coral. Then turn,
for everything is turning, and safe-keep
that reef of light, godly, that longed-for alteration.




This article first appeared in the 21 November 2011 issue of the New Statesman, The myth of the Fourth Reich