As Snowflakes Fall

AS SNOWFLAKES FALL

Christmas Eve

Snowflakes, softly calling to the valley below,
fine flakes, slowly falling, offer hearts to the snow.

The old man’s mind is a frozen sea where he waits on the banks of himself,
shining back mountains, shining back stars from his thin white skin.

And fish that are dreams, fish that are memories, rise up to find him
as he falls to sleep again before the fire.

It’s Christmas Eve and he dreams his belly button is a ball of golden ribbon turning into wool, unraveling to dog lead. From lead comes bark, from bark comes mouth; mouth opens up to swallow him. He is drowning, reaching for wool that is tightrope – hanging on – climbing up – walking out – balancing. Below him: a sea of bins; dents of biscuit tins reflecting suns; carrion birds scavenging crumbs; rats gnawing the boxes of days and weeks… gnawing through the months… gnawing through the years. And as birds hold in their beaks the shreddings of secrets… he wonders if they will make a nest of him.

Then he names the smallest birds Peter and Paul – two little dickie birds sitting on a wall – but everything’s wrong; not like the song at all.

Now all the dustbins are standing in a row
and on the tightrope above them he must go
with his arms outstretched, as fishbones swim below.

He takes one step, then two, then he journeys out
as a blackhole roaring secrets loudly shouts
from a dustbin’s mouth – and there is no way out.

He prays to the wind to help his arms to fly,
‘I am eagle,’ ‘Raven,’ ... no one hears his cry.
And he falls to the rhythm of dustbins beating sky.

Then he stirs to a BONG and a BONG, BONG, BONG once more
and he wakes in his chair, in the chilling cold, before
a cuckoo springs from a small clock’s open door.

And it’s 4am. It’s 4am again.
He wakes to see a fallen book and pen,
but he feels so tired. He falls to sleep again.

Now he is child and his anvil presses ice,
he’s a running, crouching slide making device
splicing his playground in a silver ribboned slice.

But he wakes to find that all the flames have gone.
Green sparks of children peeping from the coals have gone.
The blue white flames of the gods of his hearth have gone.

And he remembers snow; those snows of long ago,
each flake unique and the snowballs he would throw,
how his small hands burned, how his young boy’s heart would glow.

Beyond his blue shutters the sleepy village wakes.
In his yellow bedroom a bright young boy awakes
and he calls for his dad and they watch the falling flakes.

As the old man stirs in his chair, he picks up his book, and he reads these words again:

Chop down my shadow. Free me from the torture of not bearing fruit.

‘Ah, woodman,’ he says. ‘Ah, woodman… I know this pain.’

His faith in life, in death, in words is shaken
and he turns a page, and he turns a page again:

_To take the wrong road is to arrive at snow
and arriving at snow is to graze for centuries on graveyard weeds._

And he thinks of roads leading to snow.
And he questions the roads he’s not taken.
And he wonders if somewhere a long time ago
he was very much mistaken.

Christmas Day

Doors fly open as the wide eyed children
sledge down the banks of Baubleberry Lane.
Grandad takes his brandy from its box, then
he says, ‘A toast to the Queen once again!’
From School House gate, Mrs Cross’ black cat
crosses the bridge to the church, preens her fur.
Mr Davey smiles to the wooly hat
Mrs Davey knitted him and they purr
as they glide upon the mouths of one another.
Port is passed. Inside the haloed houses
chefs are applauded and then the other
ritual begins – the loosening of trousers.
Finally, the finished slalem of their Christmas roast
gives reason for another royal toast.

Mr Grimes savours a cigar in the snow-sprouting crisp clean air.

‘Put on your Wellingtons, your coat and your cap!’ Mrs Grimes calls from her pinny pouting mouth, ‘and when you come back – bang those boots on the step … I don’t want no snow in here. I don’t want no snow in here, d’you hear?’

Mr Grimes inhales; exhales; then lassoes her double negatives within two perfectly, perfect smoky circles and smiles at the daft dog who starts in surprise at the tree, dripping snow.

He grimaces as Songs of Praise begins and Mrs Grimes sings.

On top of Jamie’s house, santa is still
pulling his sleigh; energy drains away
in the twinkling of lights. Far from the chill
of a healthy walk, figgy fingers play
board games. Upon the green, that is white now,
in a gift of giggle and glove – families
throw snowballs at one another, learn how
to sculpt igloos. Tom, watching them, sighs,
wipes his lips on the ransacked hamper his
mother sent him. She did not send for him,
just poked him on facebook – one hug – one kiss.
His Dad told him she’d left them on a whim.
Now, he says, she’s happier in the sun
hugging her new children. Christmas is fun.

Outside the house where Tom sits, birds leave V signs in the snow.
Tom determined to survive, says, ‘I’m sad… but I won’t let her know.’

Good afternoon. Good day. Hello.
Take care, my dear. Watch how you go.
Mince pies in the village hall.
Merry Christmas to you all.

Children well? That’s good to hear.
Family coming this New Year?
Take care now. Watch how you go.
Good afternoon. Good day. Hello.

The village is glazed in a festive sauce of knitted scarves and sherry skating smiles and as flames leap again in the old man’s fire he opens his blue shutters, hears a choir of neighbours singing, walks out, up the hill; the hill they walked before she grew too ill.
And by the boulder where they used to rest, a robin comes, bearing signs within his breast and, each in the glow of a low red sun, keep vigil for the other. Dusk falls.

Then springing from the valley comes a bright voiced child,
‘Surprise, Grandad! Me found you first. Me found you!’

And as he sees her running, chasing up the hill towards him,
parents behind her; he feels his numb heart burst.
‘Me found you too,’ he says, ‘... and I found you!’

As the snowflakes once more begin falling,
as they offer up hearts to the snow,
the old man and his family
return to the valley below.

Julie Boden
October, 2007.
Inspired by Howard Blake’s Flute Quintet and commissioned by English Serenata.

Song of the Dry Orange Tree and Little Infinite Poem. Translated from Lorca by Martin Sorrell. OUP. 2007.

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