A Network of Writing and Community Publishers

December 2012

 31 December 2012

The End

It’s December twenty twelve;
The Mayan calendar’s run out.
They told us that the world would end,
But it appears that we’re still here
And nothing very much has changed.
We’re still all ruled by greedy men
And that is how it’s going to be
Until the world’s destroyed again,
As foretold in a prophecy
Which someone somewhere will get right.
So until then I’ll sleep at night.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


Skidding about on the frozen pond
Amongst the now withered reeds
Is an aged old tradition of winters past
And those of yet to come
Where many a jolly face can be seen
Gliding about on this glacial feature
Amongst a blanket of driven whiteness

But divinity will take a
Sinister yet celestial turn
If features are not adhered to
Skidding cut abruptly short
Now not a jolly face to be seen
Down into the aged depths
Amongst the now withered reeds

Mark Crittenden

[Note: Before you embark on reading this, it is recommended that you read Part 1, in the November challenge, Celebrations]


Previously, little nine-year-old Harry Craddock attended the school Christmas dinner, causing much disruption. Not only did he scratch Mr. Lawson’s precious record, by firing a fifty pence piece, with his catapult, but also managed to set off the fire alarm in the process. The event, as a result, was cut short when the whole school had to evacuate the hall and assemble in the playground. Harry was grateful to Veronica Dribbleswaite for blaming the chaos on another boy, realising that it was Gerald Albright, the school bully.
“I’ll have you Craddock!” Gerald threatened.
How will Harry bluff himself out of this one?
Will he come clean and expose the truth, risking the chance of not being able to attend the party?
Does it mean that he would have to become friends with Veronica Dribbleswaite, and be a target for ridicule by his friends?
And what could be worse? How will Harry escape the wrath of Gerald Albright?
Read on.
Harry sheepishly left the classroom, scuffling his muddy platform shoes, which smeared the once glowing reflection of the polished parquet flooring. He had just received the autumn term report, and due to his shenanigans, during the last three months, similar to those witnessed at the Christmas dinner, he had cause for concern.
But this school report was the least of Harry’s worries as standing at the far end of the corridor, blocking his gateway to the party, stood Gerald Albright, whose repose was similar to a panther ready to pounce upon its prey.
And in the same manner as this creature, Gerald scowled past the endless cavalcade of big baggy flouncy dresses, parkas, loud wide collared shirts, and low cut multi-coloured tank tops, until Harry was in his line of vision.
“Due to your stupid girlfriend,” exclaimed Gerald menacingly. “I had to spend the whole lunch break writing lines.”
“Do I look like I care,” shouted Harry cockily.
“Now you’re for it!”
“Why? What are you going to do?” shouted Harry, wising up, whilst thumbling about in his back pocket for the catapult.
“Looking for this!” gloated Gerald, holding up the item. “I slipped it out of your pocket earlier on, without you even noticing.”
‘I don’t need no stupid catapult to take you on.”
“Right!” threatened Gerald, breathing furiously down his squashed nose, amidst gasps from those at either end of the corridor.
Harry’s face froze as he made a gulping noise in his throat, which had turned dry, as Gerald, with legs wide apart and head bowed down, charged at Harry like an angry bull, knocking over other children, in a similar way to a ball knocking down skittles in a bowling alley.
Harry, who had just fastened the shiny press-stud buttons on his parka, braced himself.
Charging towards Gerald at full speed, Harry threw himself down onto his stomach, lifting up both legs and arms. He slid along the shiny flooring passing between Gerald’s widened legs.
Unable to stop, Gerald continued running towards the other end of the corridor, crashing through the double doors, nearly tearing them off their hinges, and out into the playground, before colliding with the railings of a nearby fence, trapping his head between two of the bars.
“Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” shouted Harry victoriously as he continued sliding, oblivious to panicking teachers rushing about, and the distant sound of a fire engine being drowned out by Wings’ ‘Live and Let Die’, which was blasting out from the dining hall; that place where Harry entered, gliding along the floor.
“Wohhh!” he cried out, passing through the double doors, and taking a sudden swerve to the left, before dodging a number of children, who appeared to be sneaking up to another child, who was facing the stage.
Just as the child was about to turn round, Harry jumped to his feet, shouting, “Acky one, two, three. I’m free.”
The whole dining hall was a hive of activity. Some children were gathered around a table of culinary delights, ranging from mountains of sandwiches, which were beginning to curl, because of the heat from a nearby radiator, to half filled bowls of soggy crisps, the moistness caused by the saliva of hungry fingers returning for second helpings. Others, oblivious to the rotating mirror ball, which created multi-coloured fragments that reflected the sparkling Christmas tree lights, were dancing to Elton John’s ‘Step into Christmas’.
Harry was in his element. The many-mirrored facets of the revolving globe, coupled with the playing of modern chart toppers, and trendy clothing, gave him the impression of being present at an exclusive groovy London discotheque. But the fashion statement, posed by the so-called disc jockey, namely a short thickset middle-aged woman with black hair, donning a pink Crimplene skirt and matching jacket, left a lot to be desired.
For it was this woman, the deputy headmistress, who had selected Harry to play Mr. Wolf in one of her many party games, a game that was cut-short when asked, “What’s the time Mr. Wolf?” in which he responded, “It’s tea-time!” an answer that caused a stampede towards the buffet tables.
Harry made his way past plates of half eaten sausage rolls, empty cake cases and jam tart foil trays, greasy shrivelled sausages on sticks, and sweaty cheese cubes attached to dried pineapple pieces, until he came across a jug of heavily diluted orange squash.
As he began to pour the watery juice into a plastic cup, Harry was violently pushed forward, the jug’s contents spilling down the front of his parka.
Quickly turning round, Harry came face-to-face with a snarling red eared Gerald Albright, who had just torn open the wrapper of a Wagon Wheel, placing the whole large rounded biscuit into his mouth.
Suddenly, Harry, alongside the other school children, was thrown into an intense brightness, only, shortly afterwards, to discover that the lights had been switched on, transforming the once magical world of the trendy disco into that of the school hall, with its white washed walls, dull wooden décor. and stale floor polish.
Booing and hissing circulated as the culprit, an elderly balding man, with tufts of grey hair on each side, donning square framed spectacles, ascended the stage, before unplugging the record player, causing Wizzard’s ‘I Wish it Could Be Christmas Everyday’ to slowly grind to a halt.
“Could I have everyone’s undivided attention?” ordered Mr. Parsons, the old school choir master, as four boys, wearing white shirts, ties and black shorts, alongside a number of pink ruffled dressed girls, one being Veronica Dribbleswaite, assembled next to a piano in the centre of the stage. “The school carol singers are about to perform.”
“Who let old Cuthbert out of his box?” chuckled John.
“Don’t stand next to him Miss!” mocked Harry. “You’ll get covered in cobwebs.”
“Would Miss Wright care for a treacle toffee?” offered Mr. Parsons, who had just taken a worn paper bag out of his red and white striped blazer pocket.
“Oh, Mr. Parsons!” said Miss Wright flatteringly. “I can’t remember the last time a proper gentleman offered me sweet.”
“Do stop wittering on woman! We’ll never get the carol concert started at this rate,” complained Mr. Parsons, who then pointed towards the choir. “You boy! Tuck your shirt in. You girl! Stop fidgeting.”
“Will you be singing ‘Roll out the Barrel’, asked John.
“That is not a Christmas carol, you stupid boy,” snapped Mr. Parsons, who had just sat down at the piano.
“It is as far as my dad is concerned. He gets blind drunk every Christmas.”
All the school children stood motionless, in a fixed bored trance, as Mr. Parsons and his motley crew of singers churned out one carol after another, each ending with the elderly piano player’s bow tie, with its flashing lights, spinning round against the sound of a high pitched whistle.
“I’ve just about had enough of this,” moaned Harry, as the choir burst into ‘The Holly and the Ivy’.
“Harry! Catch!” shouted Matthew, throwing a catapult at him. “Gerald must have dropped it when he charged at you.”
Just as Mr. Parson’s bow tie began to rapidly revolve, Harry fired his fifty pence piece at the item of clothing, tearing it off the collar of his blue frilly shirt. The object, still flashing, spun and hovered through the air, skimming the heads of ducking children, before landing on the Christmas tree. The coin continued spinning bursting several balloons, the loud bangs causing the piano lid to slam on Mr. Parson’s fingers.
“Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” shouted Harry excitedly, as the coin landed in his hand, not acknowledging Mr. Parsons, who had crashed through the stage floor after jumping up and down in a fit of temper.
“We are now going to play ‘Tag,” shouted Miss Wright, trying to maintain calm. “Would all the boys stand in the middle of the hall? Gerald! Would you be ‘It’?
“I’ve got you now!” sneered Gerald, as Harry and his friends started to scatter.
“Quick!” said Earnest. “Pull the hoods up over your heads.”
Gerald ran between each boy, stalking out Harry, before becoming intoxicated by the smell of the parka fake rabbit fur and sweat from the inner linings, not to mention the stench of ‘Hi Karate’ aftershave, which caused him to feint, hitting the floor with one loud ‘bang’.
Just as Miss Wright was about to volunteer Veronica Dribbleswaite to take over from Gerald, there was, to Harry’s relief, a banging on the ceiling. The whole hall fell into silence as the hatch above slid open.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Hello boys and girls!” shouted a voice, merrily.
“Wow!” gasped the younger children, as Santa Claus was being lowered, by ropes, onto a chair, which was situated next to the Christmas tree.
“Now then, boys and girls,” announced Miss Wright, in a patronising voice, as two teachers untied the ropes, which were attached to Santa’s costume. “Father Christmas just so happened to have forgotten his naughty children book, so we will all be getting a present.”
But Harry, who was stood nearby, wasn’t convinced, for there was something strangely familiar about the person behind the costume. Yes! It was that odour of polish and lemon scented toilet blocks.
Harry grabbed hold of the beard, pulling it back on the elastic.
“Hello Mr. Lawson! I’m the one who scratched your record,” said Harry cheekily, letting go of the beard, which smacked against the caretaker’s chin.
Mr. Lawson yelped in pain as he fell back onto the tree, knocking it over, so that it fell on him in the process. Baubles, of different colours, rolled along the floor tripping up children and teachers alike.
Harry stood in the middle of the hall, trapped and helpless, as the tinsel donning Mr. Lawson, the red faced Miss Wright, the pale looking Gerald Albright, and dust ridden splintered Mr. Parsons moved towards him.
Suddenly, the whole hall descended into darkness.
“You can always trust Matthew’s dad to go on strike when the need to get away arises,” shouted Harry.

Mark Crittenden


Bark on the tree
Smooth grey surface
with dark stripes
like zebra.
Grey, green and yellow
with many deep wrinkles
of an old man.
There is a stump
unevenly cut
when they took
a young tree down.

Naked branches
are reaching
to the wintry sky.
Trees are sleeping,
saving a sap inside
for the Spring to come.
Canadian geese
are feasting
on the green grass.

Marie Neumann

Winter ....when

W hen I was young and Winter took its grip
I used to love the light, bright pureness of snow…
N umbness in my fingers, the chill upon my lips.
T hen into my parent’s haven I would stagger, shivering - to thaw ‘gainst
E mbers glowing in the family fireplace.
R emember loving warmth in Winter’s cold embrace.

Ellen Reardon

No More.

No more
Burgeoning youth
Bursting buds
Light, bright days.


No more
Azure hues
Sizzling, sultry rays
Long lazy days.


No more
Russet rustlings.
Sunsets fading…. with
Increasing dark.


Ellen Reardon

Seasons in Life

Vague recollections of youth, of expectations and joy.
In Spring, I leapt up with ease - played tag with the local boys.
Gave up my worries to the light , moistened sky
Felt bursting buds and new life beneath eager feet.
I was green, so many things unknown and unseen.

Memories of happy holidays, the rich scent of blooms.
The succulence of berries, my Summer of delights.
Such joy, hope and warmth, ‘neath azure blue skies.
Surrounded by laughter, a future so bright.
I was red - blushing in the fullness of life.

Full bodied mature ness and heavy laden trees.
I am spent by exertion in the Autumn of my days.
Russet radiance and sunset skies
Do well to hide the lines ‘round my tired eyes.
I am wizened, brown.

Tired, thinning trees, with fallen leaves,
Branches, so like the veins in my hardened hands.
As a chilled embrace grips the earth, cold has not yet reached my heart.
I reflect with a smile and shed no tear .. I prepare to hibernate.
The mirror reflects encroaching grey.

Winter is on its way.

Ellen Reardon

Tyre Sound

Boxing nite in bed since five
I near slept cars hiss by above my head
Sounds arriving like tide going in and out
Rain and wet it is across tarmacadam
I horn sounds somewhere on shore
I'm out of reach in a basement flat
Hang on while their running from room to room
Will the ceiling come crushing down
Is there sleep in-store inshore
Sure I know the score in stir
I have a rosebush needs some help
Alone I wonder will it bud
In ground so cold it holds its breath
Gears change do I hear a plane
Ran out of teabag tyres silent
Engine revving ticking close in
In bed I listen to the road above my head
Trampling doors stairs creak in
Time is ticking seems ever so slow
When will the tide roll in
Waves floods tyre burns above

John joseph Sheehy 26~12~2012

Winter Solstice on Wanstead Flats

The feeble solstice sun
At its weakest and lowest today
Cannot warm the ice on this pond
Nor can the cries of seagulls
Or the scamper of hungry geese
Break the stillness of this day

Beneath the hovering solstice sun
She sits alone on a frosty bench
And gazes at the icy pond
And feels the chill on her face
And the cutting cold of the bench
And the growing lump within

Around her threadbare trees...
...too barren to kiss the falling solstice mist
Stand silent and still
Too drained to succour life or shelter
Too touched by winter to breath
Too naked for the wind to sway
Too bare to care
Behold the beauty and stillness
Of nature’s white and icy death

Beneath the limping solstice sun
...too frail to nourish life
Nothing but the hungry birds are left now
And the frost veiled soil
And the barren trees
And the deathly pond
And the decaying leaves
And the hardened ground
And the lifeless hedgerow
And the stillness of ice
And the first faint kick within

Beneath the struggling solstice sun
She sits alone on a frosty bench
As she and Earth
Await birth

Paul Butler
Newham Writers


I remember Christmas from long ago
Wading through the snow
Waiting for the coalman
Just listening for his van,
Horses drew the cart along
With muscles big and strong
Coal dust from the black sack
He humped upon his back.

Breathing in the fumes of smoke
That rose above the coal and coke
Romantic pictures in the flame
Memory paints it as a game,
Forgets the ash and soot that spread
Mum upon her knees instead
Would envy what we have today
The switch with which to play.


The snow

It is still deep night.
The bird's clock
on the wall
chirps four o'clock.
It runs on summer time.
The cold is seeping
thorough the windows.
It is still and quiet,
too quiet.
Something changed in the air.
The cat is sitting
on the window sill watching
the first snow of winter.

Marie Neumann


Winter talks to strangers and their bones;
mother nature told it not to, but who would
freeze a child's sociability. So the child
addresses their seasoned bodies
at street corners and from duvets, saying
'please remember me to the damp'

Bruce Barnes


I love to see the winters snow
it gives the landscape a sparkling glow
all of the fields are covered in white
i especially love it when the winter sun shines bright
All of the trees in the winter are bare
gone are the brilliant green leaves that they wear
I go out to do my jobs with coat hat gloves and scarf
To do my horse walk the dogs feed the calves
the woods are quiet now animals are in hibernation
to sleep for the whole of winters duration
I rush to get everything done, before winters long nights
I cant see to do things in the fading light
I come in from the bitter cold to get warm by the fire
All wet clothes are put straight in the dryer
Thank god for central heating
From winters chill it provides a warm greeting
When theres nothing to do, i love to snuggle up warm in bed
but first of all i have to makes sure everythings fed
I always find in winter I eat more food
theres always lots more there, to leave it would be rude
Typical winter foods like soup and mince pies
To Summer salads and barbeques I can say good bye
The thing that I really hate is the frosty mornings de-icing my car
with all that ice on the windscreen I cant see far
I dont like the winters dangerous icy roads
Dangerous driving conditions all traffic slowed
The thing I love about winter is of course Christmas time
Beautifully decorated christmas trees
Children jumping up and down with glee
I love to hear the christmas carols and songs
they make the nights not seem so long
brightly wrapped christmas presents galore
Piled up so you cant see the floor
I love to see holly with its brightly coloured berries
heres hoping this christmas will be merry

liz jury

The snow

It is still deep night.
The bird's clock
on the wall
chirps four o'clock.
It runs on summer time.
The cold is seeping
thorough the windows.
It is still and quiet,
too quiet.
Something changed in the air.
The cat is sitting
on the window sill watching
the first snow of winter.

Marie Neumann

When El Invierno Is Winter Only in Name

A sunrise song on this beautiful December winter day
Our mother was blessed with her seventh seed
In the village of the James Weldon Johnson Projects
Buildings built in Madrid red brick across the street from tenements
Surrounded in green grass and beautiful trees
Children are innocent in a wall of monsters
Rhythm which becomes a verse and are born into a song
Commanded John J Shea memorial school
A haven for thinking and writing and creative arts
Opening the way as Mami and Papi and Abuela and the family and sages
Nourish our hearts with love and kindness
To overcome the hardship of injustice
And in the hallways and stoops and community centers and street corners
We untied in a singing group with the brothers from Johnson
Songs sung in a doo wop rhythm across the candy store full of girls
While we were inside looking out
And on the fourth floor of 1830 Lexington Avenue
   Brother William taught us the key to life
Singing songs that were reborn into a poem
The thunder of the Vietnam War had our youths crossing into Canada
And studying at the Montreal Free University
I bear for you a play, a poem, and a dance
And at the residence of Antioch College
I will always be a poet to the world
And in the age of time
Laughing and dancing and listening to Joe Bataan
I’m just an ordinary guy, Subway Joe, and Gypsy Woman
At the Flushing Town Hall
Drinking café negrito
Celebrating the status of an elder
When winter is cool

© Carlos Raúl Dufflar 12/5/12
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective

Double Scrooge

Christmas time is here
Amidst poverty and fear
A homeless refugee
Under a knock-off tree
Cradling his homeless pooch
And cursing the Double Scrooge.

We know the story told
By Dickens and of old
There’s always some old git
Who doesn’t give a shit
But this year there are two
Scrooges without a clue

The first one shakes an iron fist
Takes most people off his list
The second one shows hesitation
Drops his head in resignation
No Santa comes to town
The Scrooges let us down

Hear the monologue
Of the hard working broke
Hear the story of Paul
In the wheelchair on the dole
The Scrooges are not fazed
‘Let the sick and poor be erased”

The ghost of Christmas past
The poor chap died at last
Succumbing from his injury
Caused by police brutality.
To the sound of shouts: No ifs no buts
Peaceful protest against the Scrooge’s cuts

This year there are no treats
For those living on the streets
The ghost of Christmas present
Reveals a starving peasant
While in Santa’s sweatshop
Workers aren’t allowed to stop

All across the nation
Cuts to education
The rich, to stay on top
The young can’t find a job
The future is in gloom
The Scrooges hand out doom

The third Christmas ghost
Troubles us the most
Fire, storms and flood
Innocent people’s blood
Scrooges devised stagnation
Millions riot in frustration

The ghost reveals an empty space
Where once there was a happy place
A few survivors in a hell
On the planet’s burned out shell
Wake up you two,
Know what to do!

In the meantime we shop
To feed those on top
We endure the pain
To keep them in Champagne
Supporting their crime
We work overtime

And don’t forget the old
As they sit in the cold
The sick and the wee
No presents under the tree
To the Scrooges in blue
A merry Christmas to you

Genie Weaver
Newham Writers Workshop


Today, it is cold enough to justify
the paradox of global warming,
Essex will not become a new Sahara,
but a new Greenland, a place where
the icebergs grow & the whale fishes blow.
The deniers claim the rate of polar icemelt
cannot be quantified, recycling their lectures
in PPE from Oxford - economics is bunk;
like Milton Friedman or Irwin Stelzer
they recall only the 9% of Adam Smith
or Samuel Smiles that suits their purpose.

Everything hidden below the surface
is ignored till it sails up the Thames
and polar bears colonise Covent Garden.
No panic till I meet an elephant skating
the Serpentine or the Grand Union Canal
and I am assured this is not an escapee
from Chipperfields’ winter quarters,
Michael Winner filming an insurance ad,
or an aberration caused by our altered light.

If the ice cracks, will our elephant sink or swim,
if she puts out her trunk, can I pull her out
or will she haul me in; will she blame me
personally or us generally for obliging her
to skate from the Serengeti to London,
is the rest of her family following behind,
is she disappointed by what she has found,
wondering where is David Attenborough,
who has filmed generations of her family,
to welcome her to her new home?

Word for Word


I am sitting freezing
Tho’ the heating is full on,
It doesn’t feel the same
As the coal did with the flame,
It doesn’t feel as cosy
Without the orange tips
That lit the wall in winter
When I was just a kid.

The radiators may be clean
Without pollution in the air,
Somehow something’s missing
When I squat upon my chair,
I think of the toasting fork
And chestnuts of my youth,
I miss the pictures in the flame
No magic? that’s the truth.

Newham Writers

Snow Chains

All was still and quiet on the lonely road through the woods. Snow laden arms of the tall spruces linked to welcome in the New Year. The moment was near midnight, anticipation was high.

For weeks the temperature had been below freezing, rendering the road impassable – which was how the trees liked it.  The last time, a car had tried to make it; before the road iced completely; one of the trees had to sacrifice itself, tear up its roots and fall with a resounding crash across the bonnet, spearing one of its now snow-free branches through the windscreen. Pearls of shattered glass cascaded and became invisible in the ice.

The man, exposed; slumped across the wheel. For hours he drifted in and out of consciousness; always in his lucid moments, an image of the woman’s face looms up in front of him; mocking, deriding – before he had plunged the knife deep in her chest.
Was it her blood he felt, sticky on his hands? He slept again. The blood stopped in its tracks, unsure of which way to go, coagulating in the viciousness of winter, before it blotted the virginal whiteness.

The trees had it contained, their master was pleased.

As the last days of the year drew to a close, fresh snow fell thick and fast obliterating the stranded car.  The spruces sighed, releasing stray snowflakes in a final flurry and waited...

Midnight fell but no chimes were heard, just the rattle of snow chains, the dying breath.

Jan Hedger

Cold Age

He was wearing bed socks
And a night cap on his head;
Long Johns and pyjamas
As he tucked himself in bed.
Wrapped up in his dressing gown
‘Neath blankets and an eiderdown
He said his nightly prayers.
So covered up in layers
He saved upon his heating bill
Whilst hoping that he’d not get ill.
As germs are killed off by the cold
He knew that’s how we hoped the old
Would end their days and cease to be
A burden on society.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


I sit by my window and look at the snow;

My door firmly closed.

Inside, it's warm; outside, it's cold.

When I was young and I was more bold

I would be out in it, having some fun;

I'd slide and I'd run.

But I'm getting old

And now I am scared that I'll slip or I'll fall.

I might break a hip; I won't go out at all.

I'll wait for the thaw.

When you get to my age it's no fun any more.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


Snow cones,
snow flakes,
and snow balls.
Snow shoes,
snowed burrows
and snowed roads.
The school is closed.

Snowy mountains
sparkle in the Sun
like diamonds.
Ice on the ponds,
icy patches
on the road.
Icicles hang down
from the porch.
Sparrows are leaving
in the snow.
Big snowman
by the house
with two spruce trees
is wearing hat,
scarf and buttons.

This was yesterday.
Today snow is gone.

Marie Neumann


Shoulder to shoulder, stood
blades of sharpened silver
shrouded in the swirling mist
silently waiting for the morning
sun; to soften them.

Jan Hedger

Snow in the City

Snow, serenely falling; settling silently whereat it lands, as
A soft white fitted carpet of the purest jewelled crystals.
Net curtains twitch; as surprised eyes widen in wonder
Before draped curtains close and settees and televisions beckon.
The temperature plummets as midnight falls and passes
Whilst the bustling city sleeps; snuggled down in quilted beds.
In the darkness, the snow shines a scene of luminescence
Its diamond crystals hardening, in the bitter sharp air of stillness.

The day begins with the early shift setting out for their place of work
Engines running, defrosting windscreens, scraping off the frozen snow
Whilst on the pavement, in ambush, lurk secret patches of treacherous ice
Catching out the sleepy heedless pedestrians, racing for the office
Ambulances; doctors and nurses will be busy in casualty today!
Children, scarves flapping, hands in gloves, scrunch their way to school
With rosy cheeks and wide smiles, breath dancing from chattering lips
Talking of carrot faced snowmen, sledges, snowballs and snow fights.

Cats stretch lazily, staying cosy indoors; dogs bound about with snow on their nose
As cheeky Sparrows squabble on the bird table waiting for breakfast to arrive.
Shoppers venture forth for the daily essentials, bread, milk and something for tea.
And so it is, as the day progresses, trains and buses are running again!
The city changed just for one fall of snow.

Jan Hedger



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