This being England, we never really know whether the winter will bring snow or floods or just days and days of interminable grey.
I admit I was delighted that Thursday night brought a sprinkling of snow. It was gone within a few hours and, of course, that may be all we have this winter. So, as I was out early enough yesterday morning to take a suitable photo, I will re-post this poem, in case I don’t get another opportunity:
It’s snowing, says someone who has peeked into the dark night*,
and I wonder if the night is less dark because of the snow,
and if snow on a dark night tastes different from snow
on a moonlit night or snow in sunshine; I wonder whether
sunshine adds flavour to snow flakes, and if each flake
has its own six-edged flavour, and how a raindrop feels
when it is caught outside on a dark night, and how it feels
when it finds itself solidifying into white crystals like feathers;
I wonder whether each feather sings a different note, whether
the drifted snow at dawn will sing like a flock of birds awakening,
and whether I will hear it.
(*Quote from Charles Simic)