Snowfall

Fat snowflakes fall like ash
too gappy to be graceful.
Inbetween, the frigid air mixes
with heat bellowed from the back of a bus.

Hunched shoulders and bowed heads break
their unsteady tumbling flight.
And just one or two upturned faces,
remembering our giddiness on rising.

Pyjamas under coats and boots worn sockless
in our haste, when snow was an illusion,
and we spun like tops, mad with laughter
and ran without fear of falling.

The door of a chicken shop flung wide
brings memories of hot morsels,
wrapped tight in greaseproof paper,
savoured in chapped hands.

And for a precious minute
we recall the simple, honest joys
that fade too fast, and are little remembered,
until we lift our faces, to the falling snow.