Snow

So over the last few days the snow arrived with all the vengeance of a fully grown Siberian tiger, who had maliciously pounced on its prey, using its entire weight to knock out its victim, causing it to enter a comatose state.

And now we waddle precariously down the street, awash with melting snow, which is reminiscent of a multitude of tiny rivulets, winding their inevitable way between the cracks in-between the cobblestones, who due to their liberal dusting of salt are dry and easy to walk upon as you amble slowly through the centre of town, inching closer to your eventual destination, Starbucks.

But in this arctic blast of late winter, spring being three weeks away, the natural elements remind me that the order of life is as it should be. For there beneath the soles of your covered feet, nature is stirring, awaking, slowly reaching upwards to reward us with an artist's palette of many differing hues. The snowdrop will be the first to arrive, followed by the daffodil, crocus, and the array of flowers that hug the warmth of the surface. Then we'll feel good, delighted by the joyful presence of Mother Nature and her blessings.

It'll of course remain both cold and cool, deluges of rain all too common and bothersome, winds seeking to rip through your wrapped up frame. Such things won't matter much, a mere and momentary inconvenience because the warmer weather will reach us sooner rather than later. Time will be relative and shorter because when you add autumn and winter together, that's six months long and seemingly endless dark, dank and dreary months.

Yet I like autumn and winter, they're dying and dead months. Perhaps to most people they're the most morbid of the annual season merry-go-round. Perhaps so, but I look upon them as no different to periods of sleep, followed by a rumbling growl, quickly chased by a lunatic growth and manic frenzy of activity. Then comes corpulence everywhere. Trees are resplendent, varied, magnificent and tributes to nature's architectural wonders, a feat man tries to replicate with the pomposity of his character, defeated by his vainglorious nature. Finally, the trees shed their clothes, each leaf serves to feed the next generation, to amaze us with its final colourful flourish, until such time each specimen is as naked as you or I.

Yes, we may pass through the seasons, make of them what we will, but autumn and winter are my favourite time. Those six months are restful, there's an eternal peace to them. Like a pair of old slippers, they fit comfortably into life and its ever present scheme. Unlike former friends they never let us down. They're predictable, equipped with a sameness that doesn't disappoint. They're honest, unable to deceive and lie. They remain as they always are, and there is much comfort to derive from such honest pleasures.

As for the melting snow, heading for the drain by the side of the road, disappearing into the endless rabbit warrens of the sewer system, it will be no more, maybe in a few days time, and I'll be sad to see it go.