The old town buzzes and people swarm
to finger the treasures offered
from pushcart stalls,
the golden apples and lumpy pears.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.
The workmen in the clock tower rattle
the neighbourhood with their tools;
the wind blows in
like a hornet and scours the air.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.
It flogs the dead leaves and billows
the old women’s coats and scarves;
they clutch their hats
and turn away to mumble prayers.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.
A man in black leather whizzes by
on a motorcycle, dodging distraction;
beneath his visor flaps
the grey bushy rag of his beard.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.
A single crystal flutters down and plucks
the strings of the wind like a harp,
brittle as steel
and cold as a witch’s tears.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.
Caroline Misner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/first-snow-6/
