The Sadness of Snow

Grey, cold morning walk for the paper. Living in this midlands town we rarely see snow that’s deep and crisp and even. I saw mention of a book on the winter of ‘62/63 the other day. Memories of our isolated farm in N Wales: weeks and weeks of hedge high drifts, intense cold, food sledged across fields and breaking ice to get water from a stream. The, almost childish, longing for a real covering of snow stirs within, yet knowing that the probability is for grey slush and transient whiteness.