The image of harsh winter is fading rapidly in many parts of Southern, Central and even East Anglia as climate change brings ever warmer temperatures across Britain. Of course the western and northern extremities still (including Scotland and Wales) suffer the harsher conditions and longer, but their intensity seems to be shortening. For me, living in what I call Middle England, where the Siberian winds still blow from the East, I have to claim ‘the winters are not as harsh as they used to be!’ I almost reminisce for the weeks of snow and ice, the frozen floods from the Thames across the Wick. For the feet of snow that accumulate in drifts at the sides of now hedgeless roads and the mystery of where the road actually exists in a flat, white landscape. But then I take my glasses off and thank my nearness to a gritted road and the rarity of such weather. However, I still worry that the change we’ve wrought will be our downfall and truly hope the winter gets no warmer.
Now, at the end of January, I have to report that the UK has had its warmest January on record and more storms than usual (4) where the winds have been over 90mph up to 100, in various parts of the country. Plus heavy rains in almost all parts of the UK which once again have produced wide flooding and impossible conditions for farmers, arable or stock. It seems we have tipped!
Bloomfield has been here before but this is a first time for Claude McKay. The former starts with a harsh scene of winter cold and deep snow but swiftly moves on to the ‘benefits’ of being prepared for a long winter by having plenty of ale and good company of household and neighbours to while away the worst of the weather by having a good time. McKay has a lighter snow-fall which maybe fanciful from an afternoon and over one particular winter night.
Winter Song – Poem by Robert Bloomfield. (1766-1823)
Dear Boy, throw that Icicle down,
And sweep this deep Snow from the door:
Old Winter comes on with a frown;
A terrible frown for the poor.
In a Season so rude and forlorn
How can age, how can infancy bear
The silent neglect and the scorn
Of those who have plenty to spare?
Fresh broach’d is my Cask of old Ale,
Well-tim’d now the frost is set in;
Here’s Job come to tell us a tale,
We’ll make him at home to a pin.
While my Wife and I bask o’er the fire,
The roll of the Seasons will prove,
That Time may diminish desire,
But cannot extinguish true love.
O the pleasures of neighbourly chat,
If you can but keep scandal away,
To learn what the world has been at,
And what the great Orators say;
Though the Wind through the crevices sing,
And Hail down the chimney rebound,
I’m happier than many a king
While the Bellows blow Bass to the sound.
Abundance was never my lot:
But out of the trifle that’s given,
That no curse may alight on my Cot,
I’ll distribute the bounty of Heaven:
The fool and the slave gather wealth;
But if I add nought to my store,
Yet while I keep conscience in health,
I’ve a Mine that will never grow poor.
The Snow Fairy By Claude McKay. (1890-1948)
I
Throughout the afternoon I watched them there,
Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky,
Whirling fantastic in the misty air,
Contending fierce for space supremacy.
And they flew down a mightier force at night,
As though in heaven there was revolt and riot,
And they, frail things had taken panic flight
Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet.
I went to bed and rose at early dawn
To see them huddled together in a heap,
Each merged into the other upon the lawn,
Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep.
The sun shone brightly on them half the day,
By night they stealthily had stol’n away.
II
And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you
Who came to me upon a winter’s night,
When snow-sprites round my attic window flew,
Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light.
My heart was like the weather when you came,
The wanton winds were blowing loud and long;
But you, with joy and passion all aflame,
You danced and sang a lilting summer song.
I made room for you in my little bed,
Took covers from the closet fresh and warm,
A downful pillow for your scented head,
And lay down with you resting in my arm.
You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day,
The lonely actor of a dreamy play.
(From: Harlem Shadows, 1922)
Note: born in Jamaica, became US citizn
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