Three Poems

by Paul Illidge (February 2025)

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Snow Woman
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She studies the snow that is
Cupped in my bare hands
Then closes them with her own
Saying: Keep this for me
Until it has melted,
Snow is not snow until it melts.
I want to remember the snow
The way you hold it,
For when, as now, you are part
Of what melts, I can briefly touch
Things that have lost their warmth.
The melting means so much to me.
It promises something which
Only the cold understands.
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Presto
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While you conjured spells,
I practised sleight of hand.
A giraffe played the piano.
A lion served tea.
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Women at the table beside ours
Gushed about Harry Houdini.
A priest appearing out of nowhere
streaked past with fire in his hair.
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I in my black tuxedo and tails,
You in top hat with a silver-tipped wand,
We stood and bowed to the curious crowd,
Moving hand in hand for the door.
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No white rabbits up our sleeves,
We shouted together Abracadabra!
And like poets pulling hats out of
Magic words, Poof! we disappeared.
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A Farmer Thinks
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Like goats’ chins,
Clouds rub the bare nose
Of the sunned sky
Over a milked city
Hung with fat buildings
That dangle between legs
Bulging above upside down
Faces, sweated faces.
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There in the hay
Of the hot barn streets
Beef-red, thick-hoofed
Pasture people walk,
Dreamed awake but still weary
From a night standing in stalls.
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