Winter Poem
An abandoned railway track dips
into a snow coated patch of ice,
everything, the rusty cans,
plastic bottles, the brown grass,
the parts of bikes, all imprisoned
in a way in a flattened snow globe
the objects catch me in a trance
as I think and associate, the colours
and shapes, crystalized, I want to shake
this world, but cannot get a purchase
on what it could mean, just garbage
or do they mean something more
then I see in among the frozen bits
a face, Rasputin, struggling to live
his ghost inhabits the icy collage
the Revolution has come and gone
submarines, rust buckets, spew
their long-life innards of radioactive
power, the Prince has long died
all beads and baubles now decorate'
the future, like those on a Fabergé
egg, which opposes the very first image
that of the ruins caught in a snow globe.
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