Snowblind

Unfinished Wonderland 2

Memories of the Snow

The snow returned
An uncompromising, occupying force
Composed of crystal footsoldiers
A planet scrubbed clean
By a celestial scouring pad
A powder sheen, watch it gleam
A strange place, all has been erased
And the world looks suddenly
New again, pure again, sure again
White advances against greenness
A landscape of endless pallor
All colour obliterated
Deceptively divine
A new world created itself
Overnight and  beyond the window
The scene shimmers like a painting
Something that seems to have
Little to do with us

The Snow = My Mother

The snow we have had recently is like my mother.  When they are here I want them gone but when they are gone I miss them terribly.  I remember waiting for it.  I remember being told ‘The snow is coming, the snow is coming’ and looking to the sky expectantly, hopefully.  Days passed and it never came.  Then one day I awoke and looked out of my bedroom window and there it was like icing on a wedding cake.  I almost felt like I could go out and eat it.  This is how I feel when my mother visits: a lurch of joy and then the novelty wears off.

Both are deceptively appealing.  Both give the illusion of warmth, of comfort of solidity, of comfort, of peace.  Until you touch them.  One of the cliches used to describe snow is ‘blanket’ and that’s what it looks like: a big, old white duvet that you feel like you can crawl beneath and sleep forever.  I’m told that sheep borrow into snow-covered hillsides, seeking solace from the cold. The snow becomes their womb.  Their warm breath creates air holes so they can breathe.  They gnaw at their own wool for protein.  But the snow defeats them eventually.  The ice presses in on them and it becomes their tomb.  Just like my mother.  After a few days she becomes my jailer.  I love both my mother and the snow but sometimes they outstay their welcome.