Late Snow


Words fail me.

It has been a year precisely.

We wallow in your sob, feeding on



You finally

Died last Winter.

I think the Robin came

Back too soon this year.


There is no other news.

I see my next punishment

Revolving somewhere ahead.

The air burns with regret.


Our lawns have begun to thin.

The year turns like curdled cream and

Danger lulls us forward, through the

Moon’s death dance.


Our house is asleep, perhaps forever.

I dread the moment when

The drained sun

Sinks to mist.


Late snow

Floats down

All white.

I saw it coming.

Natalie Crick, from Newcastle in the UK, has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. She graduated from Newcastle University with a degree in English Literature and plan to pursue an MA at Newcastle this year. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including The Lake, Ink Sweat and Tears, Poetry Pacific, Interpreters House and Jet Fuel Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem, 'Sunday School' was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.