There's a strange zeitgeist of the moment when a common event affects us all and is translated into our creative work, or so I imagine. Come on, own up if you've written about snow in the last twenty-four hours.
When I sat down to do my post for Strictly Writing on Sunday, all I could think of was . . .
Today we venture out of our front doors
like visitors in a foreign land
to find the greatest cover-up of all;
our cars are painted uniform
white and our gardens have dissolved.
To some this is the biggest show in town
presenting troupes in gloves and coats and hoods
up for play fights; you may talk to strangers.
London is one giant sculpture park.
A chance to walk the centre of the road.
To another this is inconvenience:
tubes are out and all the buses dead
a struggle just to go and get the news,
a danger to the old folk and the sick,
best to stay inside all day today,
fret about the walk to work tomorrow.
Others marvel at the change of scene:
how beauty has descended on this city,
softened every perpendicular
to moulded curves of crystal,
frozen foam that shines to dazzle and
yields with a delighted crunch.
Pass the camera, point it at our hedge.
Arching over all this, it is the sound
that enfolds this city in its thrall,
every human voice a lonely cry,
a closing door echoes down the street,
the squawk of a magpie hangs in the air
as we are transmuted to a London
of a hundred years ago or more.