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A Poem by Andrew Motion

Pure white (like latest snow,
and skims and dainty banks
there were still from the last
big fall enduring roundabout)—
pure white the spray of bones
we innocently stumbled on,
one thigh bone spatula, one
infant jaw, which was before
the snake in genius disguise
its midget anvil head uplifted
from the whiplash coil and eyes 
in looking locked, my own 
admiring everywhere, his fixed
black pips of caviar, pure dark.

Snake Eyes Dice, Dennis Hill, 10 January 2006,

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