The Deserted Snowman

The Deserted Snowman

Welcome January’s icy blast,

Cold frost that makes the country glow.

How good it feels to be a new man,

With a tight, shiny skin of fresh snow.

Many hands were involved in my creation:

I’m a figure newly-made with love -

Fresh carrot nose, hard coals for my eyes,

Hat at a jaunty angle, a scarf and 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 darkling nights,

I’m the king over 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 turns itself to mush,

Snow becomes sleet, turning then to rain,

The whiteness transforms into greying slush.

My skin is melting and dripping down,

I’m losing definition and my shape,

My hat has slipped down over one eye,

It seems that from decay I cannot escape.

A week ago a dog took my stick-pipe,

(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 shocking cold; I can’t even cough.

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

One arm is drooping, the other’s 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 upon the lawn,

There’s very little left of me,

And I doubt I’ll survive through to dawn.

A withered carrot, two coals upon 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 2014