Outside Le Grande café

the greying snowman suffers in the sun.

That baseball cap is poor protection,

spots of mud and cappuccino stain his once pristine overcoat,

his eyes pecked out by hungry crows.

Nose taken home for Christmas roast,

pipe nicked by some scallywag for dope.

A resigned chin rests upon your chest.

Dogs pass but their owners say ‘no’

and pull anxiously on leads

while slipping in the snow.

When town turned white you were a  king

and the shop owners closed early

hunting for hat, scarf and pipe

while laden skies bestowed their gifts.

With joy they rolled a well fed body

then your head…

laughing as they went

now you are skinny, unkempt, half spent.

They had a name for you, Snow King

and drew a funny smile

which droops now as drips from the guttering

fall upon you all the while.

So after donning hats and gloves

think not to build men out of snow,

             these abandoned disintegrating lumps

of something once so loved.