Virgin Snow

Virgin snow
Silence shroudsmy five a.m. stroll,A privatewhite duvet on which to roll,Snowflakesflutter it's ever so pretty,As ablanket of snow engulfs my city.
Theblankest of canvasses made out of snow,The citysleeps soundly; still yet to know,The beautythat lies waiting for it outside,The one thatI tarnish with my every stride.  The townhall glistens like on a Christmas cake,With itsspires stolen by fluttering flakes,Wrapped infour layers but I'm still all a quiver,Yet proud Agricolarefuses to shiver.  The RomanGeneral guards his snowy white steps,Staring from his Town Hall as onwards I trek,On amission through the city to take it all in,Catchingthe flakes on my tongue and my chin.
PrinceAlbert stands freezing but he doesn't care,Hismemorial gleaming keeping snow out his hair,His wifeQueen Victoria, must be more than just chilly,But she remainssitting regally in a white Piccadilly.
No busesor people to soil her scene,For oncethe whole city's immaculately clean,Thepavements are buried, the fountains all frozen,But stillI plough on through the path that I've chosen.
Sackvilleglitters - and sparkles with frost,Turingsits snowed in, his bench buried, lost,Where Jackhas been busy blowing his breathe,Coatingthe apple that caused poor Alan's death.
I slip andI slide down a deserted King Street,Crunchingthe snow that lies under my feet,Fresh,crispy powder that continues to fall,Like I'vestepped into a life-sized snow storm ball.
Neptune bendsover, globe coated in white,Not even Poseidoncan turn back their flight,Wave afterwave flutter and blanket the sky,And stillthere's no sign of a passerby.
My nextfriend is Cobdam - the industrialist,He's coveredin white where snowflakes have kissed,Thestatues are the only ones sharing my treat,As I crushuntarnished snow under my feet.
MarketStreet's dormant, a ghost town it's true,The city soquiet like judgement day's due,The snoweven masks last night's dirt in the gutter,Everythingcovered by the snowflakes that flutter.  Deansgateis shrouded in blinding white,Two foot atleast, a most alluring of sights,Usually peopleare bustling and surging,Nowcovered in unspoilt –snow- that is virgin.
Soonworkers'll walk through this postcard scene,Rufflingthe blanket as their wellies pound clean,Theirfootsteps uncaringly melting the snow,As ontotheir work the masses wearily go.
They'llmoan and they'll curse that the bus didn't run,The tramsstuck in Sale, the trains didn't come, The carsneed defrosting, their engines are cold,Thecouncil gritters didn't grit where they're told.
In thehills it caused chaos, snowing folk in,But I justsee the beauty and never the sin,Walkingalone in our snow covered city,My Manchester's never looked so perfectly pretty.
Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.
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