The fog billows
No snow falls
As I stand there
On the bridge of Davy alone.
Reflected in the icy, black waves
No crystal no spark no snow.
It’s silent, no voices
No laughter, no singers
Ring in the alleys of stone any more,
In the jet black branches,
In these melancholy arms
And sad bony fingers stretched out
To the low hanging, charcoal sky.
Only the tranquil river flows
An onyx stream through the heart of the town,
Collecting the dreams that trickle out of windows
Out of the lethargic mind of the town.
Even the shows
Are finished, released are the late viewers from the rows
Of the theatre, they have gone home. Even the crows
Are sleeping, not the woeful weeping
Of an infant wails nearby
Just the somnolent stream
The dreaming slate city
I stand by
The railing, I lean
I’m wasting my thoughts
On a drained canvas
Still no snow