The Snowman

Grandfather gave him a ball
It wasn't for tennis
It wasn't for little hats
with spinning wheels on top.
It wasn't a calamity.
It wasn't for Jane.
and it wasn't plain.
Grandfather gave him a ball...
covered in prints
covered in warm dints
rolled in history and stories.
It wasn't for anyone else.
It wasn't for the boy he met
in Boyle's Blue trousers
with bitter lemon hair
and a honeyed smile
used for tricks
and wreckages...
like he owned the girl
with a pearl earring.
By god-
he did not!
Grandfather asked him
to make something.
It wasn't to be moulded
and handled
and bent out of place
by anyone else.
It was his
for ideas
for freedom.
He didn't make a box
or a pot.
He didn't make cups for tea
or a plate for three.
He divided the clay
into two equal parts.
He made a snowman
even though it was warm indoors
on that day.
He made a snowman.
He made it himself
in December,
on the other side of the world...
and it was turning ice into clay,
a warm, soft, gentle day-
a piece of the earth.
But the boy he met
took the ball
from grandfather.
He put it in a plastic box
and sometimes he let you take it out.
But it wasn't really yours anymore,
not really.
But you got gold pieces
all dressed in
Boyle's blue trousers.
But they weren't yours
and neither was
grandfather
anymore.