The anticipation lasts for weeks,
face lit by the glow of the TV,
I'm waiting for the verdict,
from the woman dressed in an ink blue suit,
gesturing theatrically over a map.
And then I hear it,
'Snow forecast for the South of England.'
I wake before the alarm, dash to the window,
full of hopes and wishes,
I pull back the curtain to be greeted by a talcum powder covered world.
The breath catches in my throat.
Blasted by cold air as I step outside,
the snow crackles like fire underneath my step.
The moon creates diamonds hidden amongst the flakes that fall around me.
My own ticker tape parade.
My feet growing cold, I retreat indoors.
Turning around I see my footsteps,
the only mark on a virginal landscape,
already being concealed,
so another can be entranced, just like me.