Christine De Luca

Da wirld, shrukken tae window-peen,
hadds hits braeth. A moarnin scene
wi licht - döless an dour - drittlin
trowe syer-cloots afore waarmin
peerie-wyes tae opalled scumble.

But, nose tae gless, a caald fumble,
a eence apön a time sense, blurry an frostit;
a inner wirld o nae paes, an half-haertit.
Mindin on flukkra-globes we’d shack,
waitin fur da snaa ta settle back.

Still spellboond an stumsed,
an foo o hoop fur wir aert med new,
we stotter on; laek glinderin at dat sphere
comin at slowly, till veeve an crystal clear.

The world, shrunk to a window-pane,
holds its breath. A morning scene
with light - listless and dour - seeps
through a muslin cloud before warming
gently to opalled scumble.

But, nose to glass, a cold fumble,
a once upon a time sense, blurry and frosted;
an inner world lacking peace, and half-hearted.
Remembering snow-filled globes we’d shake,
waiting for the flakes to settle back.

Still spellbound, bewildered,
and full of hope for our earth made new,
we stumble on; like peering at that sphere
unveiling slowly, till vivid and crystal clear.