The day it was on all our lips
I’d forgotten how much you loved snow
but your e-mail today brought me Moniack
in November; how you woke like a child
to whited-out windows and the snowman
the students had built in the night near your door;
the inquisitive deer; the locals relieved
by the brightness, not minding closed roads
and felled trees. Now it’s snowing for you
in the north, you’ll wake to surprise;
and maybe even a snowgirl decked out in lights.
Yes, I’ll be in Moniack in April,
will be glad if it snows, and from a woman
who worships the sun, this is testimony
to what you tell me to do, anytime.
“Text, ‘Leave the key under the bin’.”
That snowy drive, a trip to work
doubled in time. Your love &
hug across the miles. I think
about snowflakes falling into the sea,
frosting the pebbles on the beach; of your
wild lonely dreams; your passion
for texting. You say “the city’s a gift,
a new prize. Send poems”.
No, not that calm, that Christmas card peace
but cars crunching perilously;
not white either, oh, at first glance,
but then rain- grey portending slush.
Best sight: guys on a breakdown vehicle
pushing, sliding, shoving a dead car
up a ramp, stopping to lob
snowballs, whack, into each other’s faces,
whack, then driving two vehicles away,
stately ambassadors of the weather.