My son is a snowman.
His pink carrot nose twitching
in the cold Sunday air,

twig fingers dancing across
barely formed car bonnet mountains,
sledge heart racing towards
a day of ‘It’s finally here after waiting all Christmas’,

woolly hat ears ignoring the neighbours
next to our drive tutting about how
this quarter inch of light snowfall might
‘possibly, maybe, make it slightly trickier
to get to work tomorrow morning.’

Carl Burkitt 2026