Snowflakes surprise us,

small and aimless as we ourselves,

so light they sift upwards

in random puppetry.

 

Yesterday we arrived in England

on the edge of April.

Workers in orange suits

had de-iced the plane in Chicago.

 

As we’d changed planes

in Dublin, yellow hoses uncoiled

on juddering machines

to do likewise.

 

An hour later we land in Manchester.

The Derbyshire hills are cloaked in wool

white as the new lambs

perishing in the meadows.

 

Farmers dig them out, weeping.

A carnival springs up in Daisy Nook,

ready for holiday children

who won’t be Ferris-wheeling

 

in the icy wind, or clinging

to the carousel horses with frozen fingers,

if their mothers have anything to say.

The Snake Pass is closed.

 

A magpie lights in a chestnut tree,

and along the road, through patches

of snow, purple crocuses

burst like broken hearts.