by Jo Woodnutt

Created on: May 29, 2009

White, white, all around. A blanket covering my view. The deep green of the twisted fir trees only further showed up the pure white of the snow. I stood looking at the little paw prints of all the night animals, undisturbed like sleeping shadows- patches of a darker white. They came alive when the snow sparkled, and they danced around one another, echoes of the frolics of the night before. The vision held me as if under a spell, and I wanted to let my sudden rush of bounding joy out into the world- to join the frisking paw prints in their eternal dance. I stopped my shout for fear of losing the peace brought into my heart by that cold, muffled silence.

Looking into the distance, I could see a huge mountain-top, far away and white against the morning sky. There were others, nearer, peeping into the vast azure and almost touching the few silently scudding clouds. They enclosed the scene before me not menacingly, but with gentle white arms, keeping the beauty of the view in front of me for my eyes only. Standing alone, my bare feet on the wooden floor and my chilled cheeks slightly pink, I could believe that only I, in all the world, had seen such beauty. Such a scene in all its full valour was too beautiful to ruin with eager footsteps, so I watched and waited some more, drinking in the beauty through tired eyes to my parched heart, who until then had only ever seen and felt towns in their dull grey and endless noise.

While I stood watching, the dawn chorus began, smashing the silence into shards of beautiful musical glass. A robin danced among the trees and landed amongst the paw prints, adding his own to the medley there. His royal-red breast dashed the purity of the white- a brutal reminder that the real world was still there, even in all this beauty. The smell of my mother's baking bread wafted through an open window and mingled with the pale scent of fresh winter flowers, and that of the snow itself, and the damp ground, and the pine trees. Such a mix should have been offensive, but every scent only livened the scene before me, bringing the beauty to life once again.

Dazedly, I walked down the steps, entranced by the scents and the sights and the sounds. Each reluctant creak of the timbers pierced the morning air, but my presence was unknown to the birds as they foraged for food. So entranced was I that I let out a little "oh!" as my bare foot touched the cold snow, and as the birds flew away in surprise I rebuked myself for spoiling the scene. I turned around to tiptoe back to the balcony, and saw the golden morning sun stream his first rays through the windows, waking my family. A glint caught my eye, and up above the window, along the rafters, icicles hung, irridescent and transparent, a spot of time trapped and frozen for all to see. I could see the sun already beginning to melt it, and the fantastical shimmering spike wavered, threatening to pierce the mound of snow on the balcony rail beneath it.

For once I was happy that Aunty Margaret had bought be this scarf- the sweet chill of the morning breeze brought with it a dagger-like cold which wound itself cunningly around all in sight, piercing all efforts to keep it at bay. It began to gnaw at my fingers, and tendrils of it fought their way through holes in my layers like ivy finds cracks in a wall. I silently padded back to my spot on the balcony and turned around to face my view.

Christmas in the snow at last!

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