How will they know?

It was the glimpse of a frost iced field, where the

lowly sheep were lazily crunching on crisp grass,

that touched my heart and brought the memories

of chapped cheeks and gloves with holes where

the cold wind whistled and the promise of snow.


Snow that fell in lazy circles tasting of ice cream,

bearing the brunt of blizzards that filled the gullies,

and hedgerows hidden by drifts with holes where

wellington boots had reached the for the ground,

delighted laughter as the snow soaked their socks.


Headlong screaming on a home made wood sled,

that Father Christmas brought, and the thud of 

snowballs against wet coats and the scramble 

to roll the biggest snowman’s torso and the deft

heave of the body and a jaunty carrot nose head.


Faces aglow with the joy of cold hands and a

warm heart, snow knocked off boots in the yard

and coats shaken, and then the sharp pain as the

warmth of home sets blood flowing in the fingers.

The scent of baking potatoes and dumpling stew.


How will our grand children know how to tumble

and grumble in the cold snow as snowballs fly?

The soft sound of walking in snowy landscapes?

The crunch through silent lanes? the cancellation of

school? The sheer joy watching the first flakes fall.


Instead they watch the thermals rising, knowing

that the heat warming, fossil fuels are still burned 

and being brought out to burn their liberty away, for

high temperatures are not for fun or running in frosty 

times. Tears fall because it seems the desire for real




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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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