Kendal stands on an ice cap now.
As we stagger, slip and slide,
Shielding watering eyes from the blinding-
Bright Sun with gloved hands
The frozen land beneath us creaks and cracks like bone,
As if we’re walking across ribcages;
As if we’re all weary Shackletons, dragging sleds
Towards the pole; as if Narnia’s Snow Queen
Cursed our Auld Grey Town for daring to
Challenge her latest decree.
For those of us who have to work, who need
To creep out of our homes at dawn to earn
The tithes and taxes we pay the Powers That Be
To leave our drives and paths untouched by grit
Or salt, the novelty has now gone, replaced
By a primal fear of falling, of shattering a wrist
Or wrenching a twisted knee. But Three weeks
After the first fat flakes fluttered silently
From the sky the children are still wide-eyed
With wonder, wandering around with smiles
Wider than the Kent, hell-bent on finding
The deepest dumps of untouched snow.
Wellies crumping through the icy crust,
Blindly trusting in their youth to keep them safe,
This is a glorious Wonderland, where snowmen stand
In every garden and White is always Right.
© Stuart Atkinson 2010
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