Barbara Fisher

Snow fell in the night
and was still falling
when I woke to that white silence,
the London square
and the black cat
pricking out her velvet way 
across the dazzling lawn.
Had she inclined
her ear to the muffled ground
she might have heard
what I could never hear - sighs
of crystal as flake on flake
came down to rest,
such echoes of a strange descent,
muted music of clouds,
frozen stars and polished moon.
The snow still speaks too high.

This poem is taken from Barbara Fisher's second book of poetry,
Still Life, Other Life (Ginninderra Press, 2007) and published here with her kind permission.