The sky is heavy and grey and littered with iced butterflies that flutter relentlessly down. London has lost its edges: the city is suddenly soft and inviting. For now, the snow is untrodden and folds like egg whites over pavements and cars. My feet sink through powder, shin-deep, and I pony step through the street.
The parks are frosted expanses dotted with early risers kicking plumes out of the drifts and rolling the misshapen bodies of snowmen. People on the way to work in heavy coats and swathed in scarves, stopping to point and click with cameras and phones. Children gathering up frozen cannonballs, readying for war.
A snowflake drifts into my mouth and pauses momentarily on my tongue, the bite dissolving in a frigid kiss. I would like to roll in the snow that lies like white feathers, sink into the depths and see the weak sunlight through a crusting of crystals.
My cheeks are reddened and my eyes are bright with snow dazzle. The world creaks around me.
No comments:
Post a Comment