If insects are the world alive, then snow must be its sleep

The remote clarity invites, incites even
-after the hesitant first print -
to action, to assertions of life
in the face of its perfection.

Some part there is of silence, which begs
to be disturbed by motion, noise -
by the sharp aliveness of my daughter, chasing her father
with deadly accurate snowballs, thrown like her words
in argument, but laughing now
and ducking undefeated.

In the dark she slips out again and makes her first
snow creature – not a man of course –
but a delicate Japanese princess with flowers for eyes
and a graceful sweep of hair to crown her lopsided smile.

She presides this morning over a serene garden,
drinking perhaps imaginary tea and
sparkling a picture-book England
I had thought lost on landing.