the snow

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.

alone in this house

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 thirsty

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

let’s run

the house will explode

my mouth covered in paint keeps quiet, keeps still.

fortune

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