The Parish Church of St John-at-Hampstead

Even the broken branch on the sycamore tree
Looked beautiful after the snow storm.
I had been meaning to have it cut down
But now it seems as if it would have to stay,
Even a broken branch.

The snow had silently transformed our garden.
It had shrouded patched fences, veiled old garden sheds,
Buried untidy bins
With wreaths of lacy flakes.
Frozen cobwebs of ice decorated the leafless shrubs.

All that marked the white grass
Were tiny footprints of some animal.
A few scattered twigs lay
Like pencil marks on pale paper.

The forecast is for sleet
Which will wash away this snow.
I take in the scene as if starved of something divine.
The broken branch will stay
And wait, with me, for the next rare snowy day.