December 2010 He’d been clearing snow from the path. Others, younger, grunting curses, smashed ice thick as his wrist with car-jacks and crow-bar, their breath draped over the air like gauze. I’d waved through a window feathered by frost, glad to be inside with the stove and hot, sweet tea, content to watch an old man shovelling snow. That was the year when water … Continue reading Three poems by Lesley Quayle