Waking on a Train on a Winter Morning.

I open my eyes to
fields of blinding white.

They rush past like 

falling sheets of paper.

The brightness

stings like citrus, like

curtains drawn at dawn. 

The sky looks ashen

in compare.
a blank word document with 

grey margins.

Villages rear 

their spiny heads and

fall away again,
into the deep;
briny snow dripping from

scaly spires.

Wine-red abattoirs

lurk in their wake.

Black trees flash past.

Mistletoe sits in balls on

barren branches.

I think of poodles' legs;
I smile.

The weary snow blankets

everything, like bed sheets

blown from washing lines, 

now trodden on.

It lies lost on the footpath like

sodden socks and 

handkerchiefs, and on the

rooftops it lies lazily spread 

like sleeping cats.

When the sun comes to

warm them they'll melt like

lollies onto toddler's fingers;

but now the rivers 

still run slow,

like spilt

milk.