You walk under the ice trees.
They sway, and crackle.
And arch themselves splendidly
To deck your going.
The white sun flips them into colour
Before you.
They are blue.
And mauve.
And emerald.
They are amber.
And jade.
And sardonyx.
They are silver fretted to flame
And startled to stillness.
Bunched, splintered, iridescent.
You walk under the ice trees
"Through pleasures and palaces" —
Through hotels, and Pullman cars, and steamships . . .
Pink and white camellias
floating in a crystal bowl.
The sharp smell of firewood.
The scrape and rustle of a dog stretching himself
on a hardwood floor.
And your voice, reading — reading —
to the slow ticking of an old brass clock . . .
"Tickets, please!"
And I watch the man in front of me
Fumbling in fourteen pockets.
While the conductor balances his ticket-punch
Between his fingers.