CL ( / Britain)


One morning a visitor had arrived;
that night a blizzard had orchestrated
the whirling snow into a symphony,
and by break of day, the familiar roads,
paths, hedges, gardens of our town now slept,
buried beneath a mantle of pure white.

Startled was nature to a dumb silence,
expelled were the winds to their caves.
Waist high curved the snow, half way up the door,
falling through as we opened it; the dog
leapt with a wild excitement - normal life
was suspended, as roads and schools were closed.
Our world felt a bubble, its troubles
banished, as we played on sledges, finding,
in the cobbled streets of our routine days,
a new world to see, with eyes fresh as the snow.

But deep snow doesn't fall here anymore,
when children play in the streets, when sledges
slide down the hills; each year I hoped for it,
but hoped in vain, until I hoped no more.

by Chris Laverty

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