The New Magician

first snow
the neglected yard
now perfect
ES Jacques

Touchdown, the wheels of the plane
flees the cold of the tarmac,
the sudden wind blows like a schoolboy’s
ingratitude, the passengers, breathing like Rowling
dragons, disappear into top hat taxis.

But you, dear Abigail, in Birmingham
are another season, the light of the first
snow flake caught in your eyes,
your dimple, like the winter moon
at noon, invisibly present, makes you a silver
shining in every crowd.

And when you speak, it is the language
of angels I hear, every word names
a flower, ivy, zinnia, campanula, tulip,
lobelia, daffodil, rudbeckia.

And when you smile, it is the smile
of a magician whose sleight of hand
has made the present past and all
the future winters Malaysian summers.

Abigail, my grand daughter, you are the new
magician, Harry is only pottering around.


Birmingham, 17 November 2005