10 FEBRUARY 1996, Page 36

Snow Folk

Today's different. We rise to fluffy trees, branches penstroked in— and a garden beyond itself. Seat felted, greenhouse lagged.

Some cloud's been breaking extra bread, whitening sills with crumbs.

Touting for browner fare a robin arrives on tiny skis then—fence-sneaked—next door's setter; leaving the lawn slotted with lollopy trespass.

Soon no doubt we'll see its owner's kids set freezing, stubborn hands to sculpting him— his flatcapped, carrot-schnozzled bonce (with that forked twig of a mouth) will stare across at our anaemic front and lord it for a couple of days until a touch of sun undoes his bluff, mortified he either cries himself elsewhere or slumps—presumably strangled by that red, dropped noose of a scarf.

Geoffrey Holloway