Not A Snow Globe
She has a whizzy snow globe
by her bedside at home. But
it doesn’t look like town today.
In a long line of stopped cars.
Smog turns the air dead mute.
Outside lots of people huffing
about. Some stumbling. But no
snowmen. No sparkly pine trees.
The grown-ups, they lied again.
Snow is not storybook pretty.
This stinging January morning
grumbles with sky-dandruff,
scurfing sleepy-head shivers.
A grubby glaze grey-washes
pavements and grease slimes
the roads. Gritty pebbles dash.
Stern men warn on the radio:
“Severe weather alerts in place.”
Phlegm-slip ice drips constant
from aching sinus clouds. Wet
like snot, drooping suspended.
Frozen on the outward snivel
of a nostril sneezed red raw.
She knew she’d get told off
for that. “For goodness sake,
blow! No, not on your sleeve,
use a tissue, a tissue!” Adults,
they confuse her. She puffs
out some window fog to draw
bored finger doodles. Magical
icicles glistening and beautiful
Snow Queens. Her Mum growls
bad words through clamped
lips, gloves tight on the wheel.
The car’s a bit slidey. Everyone
outside looks so sad and tired.
She has a snow globe at home
by her bed. So different to town
today. Volvo-cocooned and safe,
she still knows that grown-ups lie.