I looked out on the clear and cold, and found it falling down,
In hypnotic rhythm, without a sound.
Without persistence or patience, it soon covered the ground.
Strange, it conjured up warm memories of childhood's first snow.
When snow balls and men, and a soft feel under feet, forced me to go Walking in the clear morning air through autumn made neat.
And, white, oh so white, to trim the trees and make the long night bright.
The first snow was always the best.
We forgot for the moment that the long winter ahead would give us a test.
As we looked back on fresh tracks, marking our way,
And couldn't remember, over warm drinks at sunset, a better day.
Copyright 1997 © Ronald W. Hull