Slanting snow, Sunday open to the sky.
The play of water and cold unfolds
in even, fantastical sequels.
Three figures cut through cluttered pavement
I'm seated at the table by the window that's
planted into the thick northern wall.
The child's asleep with breath zooming
round the room, fisty-fighting the snowstorm.
Two thoughts veer headlong on the slippery slope.
They come to a stop at the top, take sledges
from their backs and sit down.
Look, mother 's waving at us.
The sledges go rushing across the white clearing
Gusts of wind and fine snow, back & forthing
a starkly bewildered child's face,
across the imagined edge.
Then a cough, a moan.
I sit and follow all this
like a vigilant dog,
on guard under the tall pylon
& eat Sunday snow.
Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Stephen Watts