On the hills snow is falling,
from this distance the white sloping drift
is gentle, the soft clouds' soft deluge
dusts the crisp air, quietly falls.

Snow on the face, soft and white,
snow in the mouth gently
silts the head, muffles thought,
rises thick, inexorable -
up the walls it chokes my things
and coats all things disguising
with powder wads, yielding and white -
sight is silent
ears are filled
mouth stuffed with soft cold particles,
gritty cloud come down to melt 
on the tongue, float down the throat,
a white breath-pillow
breathing-out as we breathe-in
a soft white bed to lie down
and drown in.

And the snow-lines join
to form a soft and shuffling wall
moving this way, inexorably,
closing-in on the day and swallowing
all the light in its way.

I watched my room go dim and green
by slow degrees of falling 
innocency -
white and silent snow, the seconds softening,
and all the world's eyes 
one by one.
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