Chalkie White Remembers Snow

Chalkie knows he’ll die soon. It’s OK.
He loves the round-armed nurse
who props him up, and plumps his pillows
with her strong, quick hands.

The doctor, he loves less.
A lifetime on the parks means
he mistrusts a soft-skinned man
with pristine fingernails.

Drowsy now, he’s drifting
to a frozen winter years ago.
Fog Lane Park’s a sparkly Christmas card.
Instructed from on high

to clear paths for pedestrians
his gang sets off down Deansgate
shifting tidy piles of snow
into the gutters

while fifty yards behind
the Platt Fields gang
whose boss says traffic mustn’t stop
are shovelling the flipping lot back up.

He smiles, eyes closed. He sees…
just snow. It must be time.
Best get on with the job.
No mithering, no muttering.
Let’s go.

Annie Fisher

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Annie Fisher would be pleased to hear them.