Imbiancata

Imbiancata

for Rubina, Pontus and Elin, who play in the snow.

In this medieval town and princedom

all the children suffer 

adoration.

Beautiful word, I think, this

Imbiancata i.e to whiten.

Everything is blanketed in white.

Lakeside, parks and woodlands, vast cobbled squares, 

cupolas and campaniles and leaning vicolos,

marble angels, stone eagles, copper noblemen 

and generals turned green

in an earlier era of rain.

The roads are cleared

by snow-ploughs

and each and every 

small businessperson 

shovels off and salts

their portion of the footpath.

The trains are either off the tracks

or in ritardo.

Not one has left here for Verona

these past three days.

Tailbacks as far as Cerese.

A pile up in Marmirolo.

Numerosi incidenti gravi.

No wind or even pigeons

disturb the postcard atmosphere 

in the Parco Virgilio.

The  iced pines are set and glossy.

They look like decorations

on a display-window Christmas cake.

Snow unruffled on the slides, the swings,

the seesaw and the roundabout.

A fountain crackles on a frozen pond.

Somebody chugging by me blowing steam, 

buried deep inside their animal coat,

in a cold rush, 

out walking their dog-toy.

The dog-toy also sporting a (red leather) coat.

There are no snowmen or sleigh-trails

and I can see 

no little people’s footprints 

in the polar snow.