Winter 1972 by Michael Paul Hogan
Winter 1972 The grass blades on the lee side of the house were crisp as over-starched linen; walked on they crunched like gravel, lapped by a tongue of snow that shelved to deeper water. By mid-morning the bird prints were arranged in neat, vertical columns like Chinese writing. The sky was the color of boiled rice. Meanwhile, my father, decked out like a submarine commander, practiced his short irons on the drawing room carpet. Keeping his eye on an imaginary ball he fantasized a succession of six-inch putts. “Don’t go too far,” he said, my hand already pulling shut the screen door. I imagined the distraction causing him to slice one in a greenside bunker. Outside the air was tense as stretched elastic. The frozen river had the scrubbed-clean look of a fishmonger’s table. With ruthless efficiency a snow plow filleted the boned road bare. Born in London, Michael Paul Hogan is a poet and journalist whose work has appeared extensively in the USA, UK, India and China. His m...