the snow covers the pathway.
on my head, a big pile of white flakes.
I’m growing a big tree inside, near a long river, with a tiny boat.
the big moustached man roasting his feet by the wood burner asks the parrot to sing to passing by strangers
his fingers roll tobacco
the smoke gets out through the windows,
wide open, his eyes read the obituaries in silence.
his tools catch fish and flowers and stars which he arranges in piles above the stove, to dry out the earthy smell.
his nostrils draw images on the glass
his hands make big fluffy snowballs
which roll down, slowly towards me.
by the long chimney
her father long dead in the war
had left behind a tobacco tin
by the fire
as I open it, look!, the grass grows tall in the living room
covering the walls with a perfect lawn
long daisies are bleeding on the carpet
I’m alone in this house and the books
move backwards and forwards
my hands have left a greasy mark on the window
prolonged by this desperate try to open the gates
the doors locked, nailed
the police is trying to break down the door, built in stone and concrete
while the house is burning in flames, the greasy patch melts away
there’s nobody at home, let’s go, says the fire brigade
the house will explode
my mouth covered in paint keeps quiet, keeps still.
the white faced woman sits in a corner
as the party goes on she watches
the white baby being born
the three fairies bring the gifts of wisdom, of words, of peace to the cot.
the wooden dance floor splits
the broken glass estimates a hundred years of happiness ahead
a hundred years of sorrow