There is a sort of magic in the first fall.
Silence drawn down like a curtain
over roosting birds and stone-solid cattle,
not even a twig rasping, or a leaf rustling.
The flakes float huge, catching stillness.
No voices raised. I open the door,
watch the world altering. New shapes
where the privet-hedge stood,
the stone bench humped like a beast,
garden railings made filigree next to the track
that slips away under a sentry of trees.
The roof of our house thickens with the weight
of snow but the hearth beneath it glows
as we blow on the embers. Outside the window
CAROLE CHRISTINA JACOBS, Wales