She Walks On Diamonds

Snow that fell all afternoon
has left bus-stops desolate, avenues resplendent,
snow-roofs white as hospital beds.
Like the stain that spreads
when wine’s knocked over by a sloppy guest
the colour comes back into her cheeks –

my beloved who with calm slow-motion steps
crosses the bridge that looks no different
from the swan’s white breast –

the sparkle and glitter of it make her think
she walks on diamonds and not the snow-crust
on a path out to the suburbs.

At both ends of the street,
on both sides of the river, her steps leave tracks
like the ones in the wake of Breughel’s hunters.

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