January. A dry cold. Snow had been lying
for days, and fresh falls on top of it,
packed hard on the pavements and verges,
ideal for sliding, and we did,
all the way home from school,
heedless of warnings.
Out in the evening too. A clear night. My breath
clouded in the air.
The icy surface, reflecting street lamps’ glare,
multiplied sodium-yellow to orange day
on some strange, icebound planet.
I slid all the way, and my shadow
alongside me, magenta
on the snow, lengthening
and shortening as I passed;
my plum-coloured shadow
going ahead, my amethyst shadow
falling behind, until
familiar house lights turned it black.
Older, I learned the physics of it,
but there was no magic in that.
