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.
