The Snow, The Snow

Thick luscious flakes slowly float down onto the car, the garden and the trees in the field. The hills just beyond the garden fence have disappeared behind a screen of snow.

The journey to work is slow and cautious. The country roads are kind to us and we manoeuvre our way through them.

Once I’m in work I find that the big road into work has tail backs with people waiting over two hours to move less than a mile up a treacherous hill. That’s the way we need to go home…

At work I am constantly distracted by fakes falling on the Georgian sash window panes. I look onto a building made with solid granite, sturdy and strong, with rock that never changes. Its turrets are now softened by the dusting. I can see down the hill at work to the other side of town, everything is soft and beautiful. Brighter and more serine, it is impossible to rush in the snow.

I stare out of the window and speak consistently of the snowfall until I am told that I must head home. Worries have been voiced since the break of dawn that we will all be trapped in cars on the roadside-it has never come to this and doubt it will, but the thoughts of everyone are already at their fireside.

The Husband comes to collect me and we trundle through town, down the carriage-way and onto the country paths which lead us home. As soon as our boots hit the drive we are home.

We are home and can put the kettle on, we are home and light a fire, we set the table, we eat our tea and we talk. We are home, and this is ours and we had better make the best of it. It is cold outside and I know how lucky we are to be here.