Swallowed In One Gulp Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

It had been
snowing
heavily
on the hillside
for weeks.

The hill
was covered
with cream
woolen
rags and air-

starved
cotton masses,
crawling
balloons
of unmelted
snow

growing daisy
still fresh
in its pearl froth
and white foam.

Crawling
on the hillside
like quiet

ambling
elephants pausing
to stroll
into themselves.

But the ruffled
white blankets
of snow
that had chewed

without
swallowing
the sea
green
and shamrock hill,

spat out
cream and gray
beards of snow

crawling
across the slopes
like tottering
shepherds
dressed in white.

(ii)

But the bright
sun only
nibbled off,
in small morsels
and tiny
creeping specks,

from masses
of snow, their hunch
backs sticking
out like deities

whirring
and murmuring
in light breezes
and puffs
of whizzing winds,

the hill
staying covered
for light-year weeks
with thick
white rock
of unmelted snow,

thawed off
only slowly
by light-fingered
sun sleeping
in its sky nest.

(iii)

Until the hill's
crown
and sides down
to its ribs
turn greenish,

still leaving
a thousand cream
and cotton
chicks of snow
to crawl
at the hill's foot.

(iv)

As the sun
settles,
dusk cruises in
with tawny sheets
fast growing
hickory,

a fossil cloud
behind the hill
bouncing in,
as it darkens.

O graphite cloud,
giant hawk
of dusk
in your full
stretched-out wings,

do not drop
on the hill's feet,
as you will
devour
a thousand
chicks
of snow specks.

But before
loud thoughts
push
back the dusk,
the dark-bearded

giant hawk
of overripe dusk
jumps down

to swallow
with a full-blown
night
the cream
chicks of snow
in one gulp.