The snow that comes late, in February

I know you,
solitary bastard, vaguely late to the party,
never truly there, sitting still, observing.

How you like the snow that comes late in February,
after a failed Valentine’s Day, after all the bills paid,
after the long craving for silence.

There are no tracks in front of you now,
just snowdrifts and stark tree branches,
like before.

You remember the winters in Tipperary,
the black crows sitting still as stones,
high in the tall bare trees, watching you.

Your mother sending you to the butcher shop,
too embarrassed herself to ask for a sheep’s heart,
instead of a parcel of beef or pork.

Your face staying serene through that,
learning to be hushed and alone,
leaving no trace.

I know what you want now:
play shinny on the rink in the park,
take the shortcut and go home,

alone, at last like the forgotten snow shovel
left against the wall
since the first cold notes of winter in November.

I know you. I do.

---

John Ahern Doyle is an Irish-born author, poet & playwright in Canada. He worked for the Globe and Mail as a journalist and wrote two non-fiction books. One, The World is a Ball, about his adventures covering soccer, was a bestseller. He wrote poetry in the long-ago and returned to it, with poems published in Canada and Ireland. His play “Shelter” will be staged in 2026. He lives happily in Toronto.