It’s city snow. Driving fast, turning orange in the glare of blinking streetlights. Unexpected and exciting. It’s stopped all the buses but not the kebab man, who slides down the path, laughing and cursing as he goes. We laugh over hot chips and then take our greasy fingers to bed, where we leave the curtains open and lie together, silent, close, lost in the shifting veil of white. Places we should be, people we haven’t called slip from our minds as we watch inches accumulate on telegraph wires and chimney pots. Trapped by weather and my growing love for you.
Rachel Canwell lives in Cumbria. She is currently working on her flash collection and a historical novel. Writing keeps her sane. Find Rachel on Twitter and Instagram @bookbound2019.