First Snow Poem by Caroline Misner

The old town buzzes and people swarm
to finger the treasures offered
from pushcart stalls,
the golden apples and lumpy pears.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.

The workmen in the clock tower rattle
the neighbourhood with their tools;
the wind blows in
like a hornet and scours the air.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.

It flogs the dead leaves and billows
the old women’s coats and scarves;
they clutch their hats
and turn away to mumble prayers.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.

A man in black leather whizzes by
on a motorcycle, dodging distraction;
beneath his visor flaps
the grey bushy rag of his beard.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.

A single crystal flutters down and plucks
the strings of the wind like a harp,
brittle as steel
and cold as a witch’s tears.
Nothing has changed in a hundred years.