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By Margaret Simons
I KNEW when I woke up this morning that the snow had continued through the night. There was a silence and a light brightness to the morning. The shadows on my bedroom ceiling were sharper-edged. The birdsong sounded odd too.
It was not so much song as a collection of crystal notes, each distinct.
This has been the heaviest fall of snow since I moved here more than five years ago. The garden is transformed. The plants you never notice stand out the most. Feathery weeds carry spectacular canopies of snow.
The bird netting that is still draped over the long~finished raspberries has held the flakes, and is now a great Sydney Opera House of snow, quite obscuring the tatty old berry canes.
Leeks and carrots and parsnips and the other staples of the season have disappeared under the blanket, which meant that when Clare and Lachlan and I went out mid-morning to make snowpeople we had to use ancient parsnips from the fridge's so-called crisper to make the noses. Lumps of coal did for the eyes. Then a fresh flurry of snow drove us inside.
Snow looks wonderful as it approaches. Quite different from rain. The sky was clear blue and the approaching snow was like smoke or magic dust. We could time it exactly when to run inside.
Now, eight hours later my children are tucked up in bed and the stove is roaring, keeping the whole house warm. The snowpeople are still standing, just visible from the kitchen window. Their noses have drooped, but otherwise they are intact.
The temperature has hardly risen above freezing all day. I was worried about the goats. I thought I would find them standing with their backs to the wind in the unhappy. humpbacked posture that I have seen cold wet sheep adopt.
I needn't have been concerned. When I went down to smash the ice on their drinking water, they were nibbling happily at snow-covered blackberry brambles. Their coats are as thick as doonas now. I doubt if they had even noticed the cold.
The chooks, on the other hand, de nothing but huddle and complain. It is days now since any of them laid an egg Their combs lie pink and flaccid or their heads. Still, they are shameless in asking for food, and too finicky to scratch in the snow. I am a softie. I made them a hot mash.
Meanwhile, all around us, the world has come to a silent white halt. The schools were closed today. There was hardly any traffic across the mountains and the buses were cancelled. People didn't make it to work.
The dirt track that leads down to our house was unmarked by tyres until after lOam, and then it was my car making an attempt to take the children to creche. We gave up. We had a quiet, white day at home instead.
At times like this it is hard to believe that the soil will come alive again, or that I will ever again walk in my garden wearing only a T-shirt.
There is more snow falling. The world has been put to bed under crisp sharp white sheets.
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