Robertson

I knew by the doing 

there would be tears

not from the hot aches

as your frozen fingers thawed

under warmed water

from the scullery sink

your tiny hands poaching

to a cranberry raw

nor from the spoiling antics

of your cantankerous younger brother

hell-bent on disruption armed

with a salvo of cannonballs

I watched fascinated

from the window as you meticulously

surveyed the pure white canvas

deciding where to start

an artist torn between subjects

sniffing the wind

from somewhere, everywhere

you drew him up, sculpting

first his handsome portly frame

and then a neckless head

you named him Stevenson

from a book I was reading

you found beneath my bed

whilst rummaging for an old scarf

for three unlikely days 

un-seasonally cold 

your proud monolith

on its green-flecked plinth

surveyed the carpeted garden

with a stoic but satisfied smile

I was ready for you, for your tears

having seen the forecast

your mother, forewarned

offered various shopping treats

but distraction tactics at breakfast

failed to divert your mission

then again perhaps you already knew

snowmen never say goodbye

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021