Snow Girl

There was George, and Dave, and me,

all indentured and marked by trade,

three old lions without a carnivorous tooth

between us, that had not been worn down

by age and grinding dreams,

three redundant worker bees

now volunteering to support

a commune’s dream in a city garden.

The snow-lashes had fallen overnight

one to another in their thousands bound;

wedded together into one white promise

they were a bride's promise,

a child's playground.

We old men, job weary with work

and wanting to play, dug deep

and heaped a man of snow

discarded scarecrow hat on top,

and  Ashling added the buttons

and ornament,

as children and women are inclined to do.

Oh Ashling the young, Ashling the bright

Ashling the one

with the perfect white teeth.

It was George who first forgot his senior status

gathered two snowballs from the ground,

gloving them into battle ready shape.

.

Oh Ashling the young, Ashling the bright

Ashling the one

with the perfect white teeth.

Then, on realising his age

and the solemnity of our present slowing state,

he paused and allowed his hands to curl

redundant, shame-filled, by his side.

I think it was the lack of twinkle in my eye

that finally signaled the passing of his fighting days,

and being a poet, and a wag,

George mimed the careful weighing of each ball;

one final, testicular, comment on our state.

After a round of teenage shuffling,

and competition for the comment most apt

Ashling saw the ancient loins had stirred,

and offered to take those now redundant balls

from George passed over; reluctantly disarmed

de-clawed.

She took them to where our snow man stood

and carefully placed her gifts upon his chest

and after two further button ornaments were pressed

she stood back with pride

to admire the snow girl by her side.

I knew then

that what was once a feverish fire

could not now melt a snow girl

. . .  my sole desire.

©Niall OConnor    2012