The pretty snowfall and the careless brutal
Invigorate the young and sometimes kill the old.
The dark ice hides on roads; the North wind bites our quicks,
And like the sliding hooligan, the cold does tricks.
It makes walls crumble, pipes crack, lorries skid -
But does it hate the world it's beautifully hid?
Don't bother asking; you'd as profitably try
To count those languid flakes meandering from the sky.
If you've any comments on this poem, George Simmers would be pleased to hear