WALKING THE SNOW...

 Walking The Snow…

It was very odd really.

There was maybe a centimetre or so

(Half an inch, let’s get this right)

Of freshly fallen and slightly packed snow

Lying on the pavements

On a cold January morning on the outskirts

Of Solihull (Birmingham, let’s also get this right)

And it was delightfully chilly…

It was very strange actually.

There was a dull but gentle crunch or so

(Like a distant cannonade, let’s say) 

Of a lowered shoe upon the virgin snow,

Carpeting the pathways

On a bitter January morning when the ice hurts

Bare hands (no gloves, my fault, I’d say)

But that sound mesmerised uncannily…

It was very peculiar, truly.

There was a curious moment or so

(Well, with every step I took, to be fair) 

And thoughts of a thick rope, lugged in snow

Dragging over the stern,

On an icy January morning, of a trawler which skirts

A shoal (likely not on the local canal, I must say)

But the pad was redolent, certainly…

It was very unsettling, honestly.

There was a soft scrunch, quite so

(Like squeezed cotton wool, I guess)

And a dull grating, as I trod down more snow,

Strolling along as dawn broke

On a lockdown January morning, with occasional spurts…

A muffle (a swathed percussion, I guess I could say)

And an invasive, suggestive whisper beguiled, eerily… 

Pete Ray 

8th January 2021

That odd dull, muffled crunch really did make me think of a distant bombardment by cannon, or the lugging of nautical hawser over a boat’s hull, then finally the squeezing of cotton wool tight.

It was a strange but constant sound as I trod…