The final snow of the year, riddled and hard, <br />assailed by wind and rain, still covers the field, <br />while heaven above, a milky upturned ashtray, <br />lingers like a promise never fulfilled. <br /> <br />Smoke rises past the limbs of walking trees <br />toward blocks of flats that are a thousand greys. <br />Coal miners cough laments down muddy streets <br />to greasy taverns, and in shop displays <br /> <br />Christmas trees thirst for drink in dented pots. <br />Coal hills lie waiting for ice picks and shovels <br />as flocks of children drag ramshackle sleds <br />toward the toppled ruins of Eskimo hovels. <br /> <br />And at the roadside shelter Jesus sleeps <br />in the cradle of his weeping mother’s arms, <br />the light that leaks through small cracks in the roof— <br />forsaken as the sparrows that chant him psalms.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poland-new-year-s-day-1982/
