Wednesday, 2 May 2018

million fingers (reworked)

Million Fingers

Snow of course can offer a slight,

To one who looks heavenly, 

To the white sky.  

Tobogganing in his minds eye. 

Whilst the flakes drift on

But not settle at all 

The worst of them are those that come at night. 

But by the morning’s rain 

Only disappointments remain. 

That deep desire to see all four climes

Without venturing to those mountain heights 

Nor straying North of Watford’s line. 

And to not want to be bypassed

By the year’s savagery 

Let it take its toll

To feel that sting

The icy spray 

The tingling growing numbness

And to be in the middle 

Of a snowball fight. 

To get into them gripes.  

That want to grind us all to a halt

Our old country that

Immortalised the white yule. 

A Dickensian time of happy poverty 

Where now our cars sputter 

And struggle to climb.


When now our newspapers headline,

The frozen homeless,

Our elderly neighbours friendless. 

Whilst the snow drifts ever onwards 

blanching all our misdemeanours 

With a cheery hey ho. 

That will be the death

Of those that we do not know.