The intoxication of Christmas is over. The world again feels drab and empty. Until this morning. It is January,1977. The aroma of quiet and stillness hangs in the air. Outside, the dark and emaciated physique of the cobbled streets of Newcastle’s east end is transformed, by the simple act of donning a creaseless, dazzling wedding gown. It expands, like bread in an oven, with each snowflake.
tipsy confetti
plumps virgin, linen-fresh land –
pure celebration
A biting north-easterly wind forces the snowfall to drift stubbornly against the gate. It compacts, breathless, making the walk to school an exhilarating challenge.
spiteful nips of toes
compete with raw slaps of air
en route to school: closed!
Not for me building snowmen or sledging. No, I am straight home to curl up indoors and watch the miracle outside unfolding from my bedroom window.
through ice-clear portals
bridesmaids fall silent, then dance;
branches crack and snap
Call it sentimentality, but snowfall no longer spells magic and wonder. The luxurious wedding dress of 1977 is now a semi-sheer item of fast fashion. Cheap. Disposable. Forgettable.
rare visits of mean
siftings of icing-sugar:
teasing with sweetness
Terraced Newcastle in 1977 snow. I miss it.
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