For Billy Mills the Poet and Blog Master

For Billy Mills the Blog Master Extraordinaire

the white expanse of the comments box,

invites the poet to give up coffee and think about

the virgin territory of whiteness, the white noise of winter,snow flakes

that aspirated by an almost silent breeze

layered on thick like Aunt Mari's knitted jumpers,

a softness of a washing powder advertisement for whites,

then the knight, Sir Gawain, through proselike poetry, on steed,

pushes through Northern hardened vowels, with language that

precedes by centuries Ted Hughes, and anticipated Hopkins

before, the hawk from the top of pine, screams down,

to the readers wanting something, the resolution, sharper,

the cones in finer pixels, the government of writing about seasons,

is left to whimsey, like the flakes falling, and the snowman looks on,

blind, yet all seeing, a carrot smells Christmas several days off,

the snowdrops pushing through spring, now the significance of winter

is lost to the polar bears as the icefloe like the softies incorporated

in coffees melts too quickly, the greenland sharks pick up the tab,

while we muggins, you and I, think about a snowy image in a edward

-scissorhands movie, or the James Stewart classic, xmas, a convenient

deux ex machine for laissez faire politics, they cut up the bear and

the stuffing goes to some government sponsored biology cum oil lab,

The Thomas Pynchon theme, plays hide-and-seek,will you be snow-balled,

or iced, as the comments box fills up with print, carrying you away from

the conifers,towards something dreamt up in five minutes, a start........