We’re listening to breaking traffic news,
how Britain has ceased to function in this weather,
when somebody glances out of the window.
And it has reached us. Fat, clumsy flakes
dancing and falling on the breeze,
ethereal in the glow of a streetlamp.
The next day the streets are deserted, empty
roads thick with snow and not a tyre track in sight.
I walk the six miles to your house,
under a ghostly sky. The world could be ending.
I’m listening to the soundtrack of an old film,
pretending we’re the only ones left, and it’s cold,
so cold, and soon we’ll have nothing left to burn.
And then we’re watching Comedy Central
in your living room, and the adventure is over.
In two days it’ll all be back to normal, back to work,
back to traffic and rain and melting slush
in greying piles at the kerb.
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