We all came to hate the snow,
even the children. There were
no snowmen, no sledging, no
wrapped-up long walks with
hot chocolate on return.

Flakes fell like napalm, over
and over, ad infinitum, unto
infinity, iterative, recursive.
It just wouldn’t stop. And we
cowered indoors, fragile roofs
all that protected us from
nuclear winter.

Gas, electricity, peat, coal,
we drained them all in wasted
efforts to keep warm. By June
we burned the shed. Those
without gardens had gone
feral – hunted the communal
corridors of high rises for
something to burn.

And in the country mansions
below-stairs staff set ablaze
the ancient heirlooms as upstairs
the heirs froze solid in emptied
rooms, unable to break free
from social constraints – none
survived into July.

It was the same everywhere –
humanity huddled under
unremitting snow, and come
August we started to eat
each other. September, October,
November, everyone died,
one by one.

December came white as so often hoped.
Of course, no one saw it –
let it snow, let it snow,
let it snow.



MAXINE ROSE MUNRO is a Scottish poet who writes in both English and her native Shetlandic Scots. She is widely published in the UK, in print and online, and has had poems nominated for both Best of the Net 2018 and the Pushcart Prize 2019. Find her here: www.maxinerosemunro.com.