'driving home on boxing day with neil looking up at the mountains'
through the roar of the heater we plough
into the mouth of the mountains
listening to something called
punk-funk and talking about the novel
you will never write, i saw the way
the weather had fallen and frozen
over the countryside.
and you said:
“when you look at snow
it is really interesting.
it makes clear something
that you'd never otherwise see,
which are the little eddies and currents in the wind.
there are all these tiny weather fractions going on
that we totally miss. micro-worlds.
i suppose that's like life more generally.
you should write a poem about that.”