Yesterday my son returned after over a year on Thailand where the temperature was never below 15 C. He flew into Heathrow to what is now rotuinely caused travelling CHAOS. There’s an excuse for him complaining of the cold, and weary after a trip via Cairo, just wanting to get home.
But two or three inches of snow seems to be a national crisis that threatens to close and disrupt airports, compromise rail lines, render roads so risky drivers are told to journey only if absolutely necessary. What happens in countries where snow is the norm in winter? Why does non-extreme weather for a temperate region cause such CHAOS in parts of Britain? It isn’t as if our traffic system is so finely tuned, so hyper-efficient, that travellers are totally traumatised by delays and timetable anomalies. Or is snow so rare that it isn’t worth tying up money and resources being prepared for it, with sufficient road salt, runway clearing equipment, experienced staff?
Don’t know. I’m just bemused by the headline grabbing importance of a snowfall. Some of my most joyful childhood memories were of feet of snow in Ayrshire and central Lanarkshire, the kind that makes it hard to walk out the door without a spade. When I was 10, four feet of snow was way over my head. Snow is one form of creation’s poetry. The fragile beauty, infinite diversity, iced diamond delicacy of each snowflake, the cumulative purity of fresh-fallen snow, the way snowfall softens hard edges, fills in and covers, till the landscape is made more gentle. Here’s one of my favourite snow poems by Jared Carter, from here: http://jaredcarter.com/poems/12/
Snow
At every hand there are moments we
cannot quite grasp or understand. Free
to decide, to interpret, we watch rain
streaking down the window, the drain
emptying, leaves blown by a cold wind.
At least we sense a continuity in
such falling away. But not with snow.
It is forgetfulness, what does not know,
has nothing to remember in the first place.
Its purpose is to cover, to leave no trace
of anything. Whatever was there before—
the worn broom leaned against the door
and almost buried now, the pile of brick,
the bushel basket filling up with thick,
gathering whiteness, half sunk in a drift—
all these things are lost in the slow sift
of the snow’s falling. Now someone asks
if you can remember—such a simple task—
the time before you were born. Of course
you cannot, nor can I. Snow is the horse
that would never dream of running away,
that plods on, pulling the empty sleigh
while the tracks behind it fill, and soon
everything is smooth again. No moon,
no stars, to guide your way. No light.
Climb up, get in. Be drawn into the night.
streaking down the window, the drain
At least we sense a continuity in
It is forgetfulness, what does not know,
Its purpose is to cover, to leave no trace
the worn broom leaned against the door
the bushel basket filling up with thick,
all these things are lost in the slow sift
if you can remember—such a simple task—
you cannot, nor can I. Snow is the horse
that plods on, pulling the empty sleigh
everything is smooth again. No moon,
Climb up, get in. Be drawn into the night.
