"It's snowed Dad" shouts Smallest Boy, as he yanks back the curtains. "Happy Easter".I open one eye and see a fir tree and the corner of a barn in the lane rendered in monochrome. Snowflakes still score across the image in precisely-angled lines. "Actually, it must be Christmas" says Smallest Boy. He is very confused, and so am I; I don't think I've ever seen snow at Easter, at least not so much as this. We decide to snuggle-up and sing carols, just in case. I start with 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' and then he joins in with a surprisingly rude version of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'. Larger Boy moans in his sleep and tells us both to be quiet. I read to Smallest Boy Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, and the wireless greets the day from the Anglican Liverpool Cathedral. I imagine snow driving across the Mersey, the dark pink sandstone block gathering white highlights on the ribs and buttresses. "If it's not Christmas, is there eggs?".Yes, there'll be eggs I'm sure, and a wonderful idea I sneaked a look at in a carrier bag under the stairs- a chocolate rabbit and hen in real wood and wire cages. The snow is starting to melt now, patches of blue appearing like rags caught in the trees. Time to go downstairs and get that rabbit in the oven.
7 comments:
mmmmmmm . I heard to day that we have had more white easters than christmases in the last 100 years.
Sad how quickly it all melts though. It's the silence I like. When you wake up and can hear NOTHING. Bliss.
It's all gone now. Except for a huge snowball lying on the Ron Combo Kettle-Throwing Pitch, glowering there a marooned Henry Moore.
At my age, I don't like to wake up and hear nothing. It introduces doubt in my mind that I have, in fact, woken up....
I was at mass in christ the king (paddy's wigwam)..it was a wintry day on merseyside.
Thankyou Thud. Glad there was someone out there celebrating Easter properly. I hope you got into the Philharmonic for a few swift ones before cracking open your eggs.
Your various-sized boys are lucky to have Robert-Frost read to them. The appropriately-named Frost has some good seasonal poems – you could read them his 'Gathering Leaves' in Autumn, for example.
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