The old town buzzes and people swarm <br />to finger the treasures offered <br />from pushcart stalls, <br />the golden apples and lumpy pears. <br />Nothing has changed in a hundred years. <br /> <br />The workmen in the clock tower rattle <br />the neighbourhood with their tools; <br />the wind blows in <br />like a hornet and scours the air. <br />Nothing has changed in a hundred years. <br /> <br />It flogs the dead leaves and billows <br />the old women’s coats and scarves; <br />they clutch their hats <br />and turn away to mumble prayers. <br />Nothing has changed in a hundred years. <br /> <br />A man in black leather whizzes by <br />on a motorcycle, dodging distraction; <br />beneath his visor flaps <br />the grey bushy rag of his beard. <br />Nothing has changed in a hundred years. <br /> <br />A single crystal flutters down and plucks <br />the strings of the wind like a harp, <br />brittle as steel <br />and cold as a witch’s tears. <br />Nothing has changed in a hundred years.<br /><br />Caroline Misner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/first-snow-6/
