Whirling

This whirling mass      ---.'
Is soft and light
As feathers
It skirls and flurries
White, powdery
And  looking out
Through  glass and
In the warm  it
Delights the eye
It can coat and crust
All objects unrecognisable
Even  the familiar
Things become  formless
Humps  heralded
By  mushroom  skies
It rushes hysterical
From   unknown heights
Impenetrable to
Sight
And  the world becomes
Silent to this soft
Inexorable stuff that
Muffles sound and  creates a
Smooth  strange world of
Crystal where not even a
Footprint disturbs
The  perfectness.

All humans  inside
Looking  out
Agog   at this power
Wielded  by a higher
Control than theirs
But  on the manmade
Motorways
A  pile of cars smoke
Crookedly
Twisted  metal
Attests to this
Silent visitor's
Stealthiness.

Without  respect
We   are easily
Mangled,  neutered,
Snuffed-out  by
Blizzarding like
Dust  it silts over

Us blanketing out
Our eyes.  Only
Bright flowers live on
After the crash, red
Blooms  to stain this
Perfect covering
Blossom  in the
Cold and unseeing
Eyes stare upward
Their owner's intent
Foiled by something that
Can melt in the
Palm of your  hand.

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