Frosty snow littered on rooftops, remnants
of last night's storm. Not leaving without making a mark.
Soft patters on parquet floors, hushed
giggles and far-away shrieks. Echoes
of the children's delight at the common
sight of snow. The quiet dawn disrupted by easy joy.
They run, jump, stumbling in the joy
of the biting cold. They look for treasures, remnants
of the past, to decorate the snow. In the Common,
the parents slowly rise, ambling to stoves, a mark
of dirt on the kitchen floor. Too distracted for the echoes
of the children to raise a brow. Their voices hushed
as the clock ticks onwards, nature no longer hushed
by the dark night. Birds chirp out, the contagious joy
of the children too powerful to ignore. The echoes
blend together in a cacophony of music, chasing away the remnants
of the night before. The hazy sun hangs low, a pale mark
on the cloudless milky sky. The wild shouts not common
to most, but on this snowy morning it wakes this Common.
Simple pleasures inspire unbridled fun. For when the world is hushed,
the children laugh because they do not care. Footprints mark
the crunching snow, the children too enraptured to lose the joy
of this snowy morning. When the bells toll, remnants
of snow still obscure the path, but the ringing echoes
as it thunders through the brisk morning until the echoes
fade away. The sun shines weakly over the Common,
the daily commute across the sky has begun. The remnants
of the children's fun in trails of muddy snow and the hushed
silence that deafens after the peaceful shouts of joy.
The children are all inside, with rosy cheeks - a red mark
of a well-spent morning. Breakfast time. Mark
of mud on damp socks, contented children eating as the echoes
of morning snow taper away, chasing the joy
of snow away. But the day approaches and for the second time, the Common
is home to children, bundled up, speaking in hushed
whispers that carry over the snowman standing proud amongst the remnants.
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