The North wind doth blow . . .
. . . except that it dothn’t. True, the wind was ‘from the North’ at one mile per hour or something ridiculous. That was fine by me. It was quite cold enough without it being shunted along at speed, and I was indoors, for goodness’ sake. The house isn’t hermetically sealed but most of the draughts have been denied access.
. . . and we shall have snow
Well, yes, we have had snow, not enough to write home about, but snow nonetheless. It came down in big, soft flakes, quite impressively, for a while. I noticed from my Reolink camera that it was settling abjectly and rather sulkily on the cars on the drive, as though it would rather be somewhere else.
. . . and what will
the robin do then, poor thing?
He’ll sit in a barn
To keep himself warm . . .
. . . well, he would, if he could find one that hasn’t been snapped up and converted at vast expense to make a desirable property for a human, but if he manages to find a vacant barn being used for its original purpose . . .
To keep himself warm
And hide his head under his
wing, poor thing.
There are
four more verses to this rhyme. The second one asks,
And what will the swallow do then, poor thing?
Oh, do you not know
That he’s off long ago,
To a country where he will find spring, poor thing.
The third and fourth verses speak of the dormouse and honey bee, both of which hibernate until the spring, and the final verse refers to children.
When lessons are done
They will skip, jump and run,
Until they have made themselves warm, poor things.
Much is made of the joy to be had in the snow – tobogganing, building snowmen, snowball fights, making snow angels. All such pursuits are great fun, but the cold! Who can forget the frozen fingers and the agony of warmth returning to icy hands and feet, the face flayed by bitter wind, nose pinched and cold, drawing arctic breath into aching lungs?
Snow is lovely, in small amounts, for a short while, for those who do not have to travel.
Today the wind is from the East-North-East at 4 miles per hour. The sun is shining fitfully and blue tits are busy in the garden.
Is there a poem that starts, ‘The East-North-East wind doth blow’?
