January passes almost without mention. It is bitterly cold and its funeral is dreary and bleak. The brass band never shows up and there are no mourners, except for the drunken beggar and his crippled, one-eyed dog. They stare into the open grave, while a murder of crows glides through the heavy, grey sky, carking noisy insults at the pathetic gathering.
The priest holds his sermon. It is short and plain. There is nothing much to say, yet I reminisce while the coffin slowly descends:
The last remnants of the festive season gradually disappear. Skeletons of christmas trees, deprived of their tawdry evening gowns, litter the pavements. Grandchildren rush into shops and exchange unwanted presents. The last of the Christmas decoration is put back into its dusty dosses.
Spring rears its sleepy head and nature hints at April. Sunshine briskly glares at naked roofs. White becomes brown and green. Footpaths become sludge and melting snow reveals a plastic bag, carelessly thrown away on a cold December evening walk.
It lasts a fortnight, until winter launches a successful comeback, descending upon the world like a predator on its unsuspecting prey. Again white is the dominant colour, and while Australia is being swept away and revolution ripples through Arabia, here early morning life comes to a stop, as the world drowns in a sea of white feathers. Busy townspeople arm themselves with snow shovels. Their battle cries - aluminum on asphalt - are heard on every corner. Their fight is brave, desperate, in vein.
Roads are littered with cars helplessly sliding across the road, dancing their dance on a slippery stage in uncoordinated symmetry. Display of chaos by the ballet of the disabled. The performance lasts until nature surrenders to salt and steel and finally the curtain falls. No-one applauds, no-one bows. Everyone moves on.
