"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.
Sunday Poem 221
9 hours ago