The solemnity and reverence of falling snow

The slow procession of flakes,
Dropping daintily from the sky,
Like a choreographed ballet,
Fills me with a sacred awe.
The forest quietens,
As the birds and animals,
Speak in moderated tones.
Their home has become a light-filled cathedral.
And they demonstrate respect for its majesty.
I become mesmerised by the passage of single flakes.
And feel my soul cleansed and nourished,
By the freshness of this pure modest spectacle.

It Snowed

Went to bed with anticipation.
Woke to the eerie silence,
That means the outside sounds,
Are softly muted by white powdery snow.

No traffic on the road,
And no morning chorus of birdsong.
It is a reverent time.
The paddocks are yet to have their pure surface,
Pockmarked by animals' pads, hooves and claws.
My yard wears a clean crisp sheet.

In bed I snuggle down,
In the knowledge that my route to work,
Will be impassable.
Let the children sleep in.
There will be time enough for their,
Excited, cold, saturating play.
  

Will it snow?

This week it has been several degrees below.
Frosts have come with days of glorious blue.
Give the children cheeks of a rosy hue,
But tell me, will it snow?

The grass is brown and has ceased to grow.
The buck still smells and the goats are still in heat.
The bull bellows, the cow he'd like to meet.
But tell me, will it snow?

And though he too, is now below,
They say "It always snowed on Arty's Birthday"
But that was in April and now its May.
So I'm asking them, will it snow?

It's the kids who really want to know
Snow means no bus and no school for the day
Snow balls and men and cold wet outdoor play.
They are wishing, for it to snow.

The weatherman seems to be one who knows
Forecasted snow to below five hundred metres.
We've got in extra wood to fill our heater.
So we're ready, if it snows.