Warm coat, buttoned up to my chin,
Feet pushed into Wellington boots,
Woolly hat pulled down over my ears,
At last I’m allowed out into a white
World to play in winter’s gift ¾snow
That still falls from the sky. I hold
In my hand, to see closer, fluffy flakes
Full of six pointed stars, none the same.
Friends call and sudden coldness down
My neck makes me scoop up soft snow
To squeeze into balls to throw back,
Till gloves are sodden and hands tingle.
Snow drifts down on the wind. Snow
Ploughs struggle to clear roads. Buses
And school are cancelled. Shopping will
Have to wait as winter grips us tight.
Cas Meadowfield writes lots of things; both poems and stories from fantasy to mild horror. Born in Northampton, she now lives in the North East of England, between Newcastle and Durham. Read more of her work on Authonomy.