Robert FrostSnow
A stirring as among
cattle that lift their heads
through darkness to the scent
of water, horses snuffing
at thunder in the grass.
And nothing today will keep them
quiet or still
in the pinewood desks or summon
their eyes to reflect
figures and cold facts
from the blackboard. They brim
with light, a window-square
where trees writhe, sky glows greenish
bronze and staggers white
like surf. Their senses catch it
from far off, something moves
toward them, edging closer
even then lead pencils,
cats, chalk or the salty
creases in clothes,
an excitement whose crystals
fall through their veins,
the spaces of their skull,
wavering towards them
(animal eyes, the nostrils
flared) like the feathers
of owls, angel sky-flakes
blessing the dull cobbles
and slant black roofs, bare playground,
pond. On their hands the taste
of stars, a foreign coldness,
colour of distances
and all that is further off
than flesh. Falling light
strikes upward. Its brightness
creaks under our shoes.