Runcible Spoon

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It feels strange how quickly snow

can melt: at first light

the road was thick with it,

a cold swaddling glowing

under the streetlights, rutted

and blackened from the tyres of cars

but heavy on hedges, branches,

great immaculate sheets of it

laid on the driveways.


Midday, and the wind slackens.

The air is wet and mild

and the snow has vanished

as if it never was, leaving

the black earth drenched,

my yellow crocuses bent double

but alive, nodding and stooping

like crones beneath the fuchsia,

its tough dark leaves.


Only, I find when I reach

the roundabout, a last hunk of it,

the size of a bunched fist,

of a human heart,

hardened, with a nasty, sooty look to it,

like the nub that stays

somewhere at the core of the body

when the loved one removes themself,