Once more the brush has swept through london,
Daubing the banners and suspiciously placed police vans,
its crystal trail of trapped cloud rounds
and sheathes london,
The grit and headmasters judgement was no match
today the suits are dented with snowballs,
the reports damp and curled,
the paintflaken rocking horse swings once more.

Now the curbs and arrowed hearts are quilted,
Not by the bottled sunshine of ages past
or the blaoted ideals of the wishfull artist,
but by snow.

They write of a brutal universe,
but for our selfish planets
natures ethereal blanket cloaks,
and so for now this snow for me lasts
but as ink dries my snow melts.