15 DECEMBER 2007, Page 52

Metal

A steelmill town, a ridge of pine, The taste of snow upon the tongue, Meant all the world was black and white At Christmastime when he was young.

In softened angle, muted line, The harshnesses became oblique. The keening lathes were pacified: All quiet on the frozen creek.

And it was Christmas when he died Far off, no place on earth to go, But fresh as in his childhood came The scent of metal and of snow.

Kit Wright