Auckland Poetry

Easter Snow

This mortal tiredness I was glad leaving
the private clinic doing a job I had come
to detest, convert rich people into future
members of AA.

The world outside was quiet and white
as death, getting whiter still as it began
snowing again, when a bullet of despair
hit my chest and I staggered back.

At the hospital I dreamt of vivid colours,
but when snow appeared, doctors dashed
in a spindrift of white coats. I now live in
an olive orchard where red poppies grow.

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