Not so long ago but half a life time to me,

a single snowflake would bring joy

to my innocent, eight year old eyes.

A snowdrift would have me jumping

feet in first to feel the suspense filled cold

travel up my body till my hair went limp with dampness

and only a warm bath and heated towel

would suffice to keep me from sneezing.

 

I would love the time

it gave me time to stay at home,

or play down the rec with school friends.

Snow balls in hand to be thrown like grenades

exploding in a shower of shrapnel filled snow on people’s chests

whilst they try to scurry behind the fallen Oak tree

that came down like a staggering fallen giant

slipping in the fierce autumn wind.

 

I try to remember how it felt to see

my parents and the “taller people”

cope with children, full of mischief

and innocent, fox like cunning

as they wave their fists in terrible rage,

whilst falling Oak like, slipped discs and bruised egos.

The children, if caught by a passer by

would howl, “Were you not a child once?”

 

Now I am one of the taller people

and would be wary of leaving my safe house.

I imagine a parliament of children

debating loudly on which adult to strike.

A barrage of bullets aimed at my blindfolded eyes

my own damaged ego ready to be deflated

under a hail of twenty first century grenades

whilst diving for cover by their newly built snowman.

 

I would worry, I would live in playful fear

but I cannot remember snow

not in the quantity of my childhood

as gritters are at work before a snowflake appears

robbing a generation of a memory

of building an army of conscripted snowmen

and toboggans to match any speeding car,

a piece of childhood stolen, just to keep the country moving.

 

Ian D. Hall. Originally published 2004.