In the last few days of this new year of 2025 a large swathe of the British Isles has been covered in snow, and today 10 January we awake to icy and freezing cold conditions across the country. It is Day 768 of the Daily Poems, and our poet Claire Booker opines that there’s no wrong kind of snow.
It’s Never Too Late for a Happy Childhood
There’s no wrong kind of snow.
Scoop a handful. Squeeze. Throw it at a wall.
Keep throwing until the wall vanishes.
Snow has an open mind.
Fall backwards into virginity and flap your wings.
Leave a footprint.
Spot woodpecker tracks.
Be awed by the exuberance of dog pee.
Remember – a snowman is not just for Christmas.
It will outlast drifts, but never your affection.
Remove your gloves.
Your hands will become icy. This is empathy.
Do not attempt legs or genitalia.
A snowman is beyond gender.
The head will fall off.
Several times.
It has hurtled to earth from 5,000 feet.
Its coal eyes were once diamonds. Or will be.
Your snowman is 98% water. You are 80% water.
You have already met in a stream.
Claire Booker