There’s that sound again, everything damped
save the sandpaper grate
of a passing plastic sledge,
swaddled childhood calls from hoods,
and mock anger threats, as ammo is readied
from car bonnet snow.
There is still an excitement of sorts, but it will not
gain entry to memory, no recalled thought will
read ‘remember when the snow fell’. Not now.
People pass oblivious to each other, each wrapped
in a personal storm, some leaning forward, all
are awkward in hats, boots and scarves,
their purposeful faces with Winter wounds,
looking ahead, intent on arriving.
And the street lamps, feeble in their attempt to
be miniature suns, just glow, inert, as the white
reflected dawn saturates all with steel grey,
adding drama to the smothered laurel leaves
that droop under the weight, looking like
Swarms of tiny ice moths swirl, run and fall,
building small mounds and plateaus with their death,
beautiful for a while, virgin fondant, before decaying
into demerara slush.
But I remember when proper snow fell.