Who am I? Don’t ask – I don’t know.
I forgot who I was amid the winter snow.
I wandered into whiteness and vanished like the skies.
When the clouds had cleared peace had sealed my eyes.
I lay there for eternity, or so I do believe,
When I returned the sights made my beating heart freeze.
Buried ‘neath the perfect snow was all I’d ever known.
Without my past I’m no-one. In this world, I am alone.
This jaunty little number is about snow. Alas, I have been reading a great deal about mountain communities in the sixteenth-century Alps, where fear of snow was a constant presence. There is an interesting story in which a group of villagers descended from their mountain – a rare occurrence, especially in the bitter winter – to ask the bishop for help. When asked what they needed help from, they replied “The ice”. The glacier had advanced so much that their village was threatened by it – and many villages at the time were consumed. This was at the start of the Little Ice Age, many hundreds of years ago. I think we should be proud that we are now taking the battle back to the pristine natural world.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic