The Deserted Snowman

The Deserted Snowman

Welcome January’s icy blast,

Cold frost making everything glow.

How good it feels to be a new man,

With a shiny, tight skin of fresh snow.

There were many hands involved in my birth:

I’m a figure new-created with love -

Fresh carrot nose, hard coals for my eyes,

Hat at a jaunty angle, a scarf and some gloves.

There’s a twig in my mouth for a pipe;

I’m a character much to be admired,

As I stand sentry over the garden,

What better life could be desired?

I wait through the days and dark nights,

I’m the king of this white domain,

Upright, always smiling and alert,

No-one to usurp me whilst I remain.

Through February, the weather dampens,

The snow on the lawn is turning to mush,

Snow becomes sleet, becoming just rain,

The whiteness transforms to greying slush.

My skin is melting and dripping around,

I’m losing all definition and shape,

My hat has slipped down over one eye,

It seems that from decay I cannot escape.

A dog took my stick-pipe a week ago now,

My mouth had gone so I couldn’t argue,

He pee’d all down my leg for good measure,

But being immobile, what could I do?

People walk past me and my yellow stripe,

I’ve got a bad cold; I can’t even cough.

In fact, I’m in quite a bad way these days:

One arm is drooping, the other has fallen off.

As March unfolds there’s not much more to tell,

My hat blew away in a roaring gale –

My head has shrunken, and then fallen down,

Every part of me has begun to fail.

My scarf is crumpled and lies in wet mud;

My body’s a stump of ice on the lawn,

There’s very little left of me,

And I doubt I’ll survive through to the dawn.

A withered carrot, two coals on the floor,

Are the only evidence that’s left.

My presence has quickly been forgotten,

My very essence of this world bereft.

The snowball games are fading memories,

My existence lost to history, I fear.

The seasons move on, complete their cycle,

Leaving me to hope I can live again next year.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018