Snow, chills, herons and goldfish

Well the snow's here at last. Arrived during the night as predicted, given the green light with all the warnings on tv, or should that read red light? I must admit I wondered what all the fuss was about, as snow is kind of an annual affair and we get so wound up by it's arrival. Of course you have to take care, I wouldn't like to be stuck in a snowdrift or have to bed down on a closed motorway. I don't like walking on ice either, getting older makes it no fun. And of course it's pretty and treachorous. Living in a tiny hamlet in West Wales is like living in Sleepy Hollow, nothing much happens, which is great, sometimes. We come for the peace and quiet. Wake up, have breakfast, look at the weather, watch the birds, look up at the trees. Think about lunch and walking the dog, in-between a poem or two. The latest exciting activity was the flight of the goldfish. Well not exactly a flight, it was the heron's flight actually. You'd think that if you knew there was a resident heron you'd think carefully about filling your pond with goldfish. At least put a net over it. (The pond, not the heron.) But no. Lovely new neighbours who come and go perhaps don't know this; they ask other friendly neighbours to keep an eye. The heron must also have been keeping an eye. And thinking about breakfast, or lunch or the nice fit shiny goldfish could be arranged in it's beak. I quite like herons. They're almost Caribbean, like parrots. I'll be the first to admit I don't really rave above birds the way my hubby does. He got so excited yesterday when someone called Jenny Wren appeared in our front garden I thought it was something to do with what looked suspiciously like Bible Thumpers in the guise of pretty young women wearing woolies came walking down our lane yesterday and knocking on doors. Bloody hell. Good thing I was snuggled down on the sofa wearing five layers of clothes, a hot water bottle, three blankets, the dog and the cat. If I'd answered the door I'd have had a field day asking when was the last time they visited someone lonely, sick and dying, volunteered at a hospice, or supported a homeless person. But I guess it takes all sorts. They might not have understood me as I speak Creole when I rant or talk to my mother. But getting back to the goldfish... the flutter of activity yesterday which was almost as invigorating as a low-flying jet, was the discovery that the heron, after what must have been weeks of careful consideration, went for it, swooped low in that dipping thing they do, but here's the rub - and the mystery - he/she ladelled them out one by one (there were three) and wait for it - placed them (flapping?) on the lawn. Didn't like the taste? Wriggled too much? Fought back? Who knows? But flew off and left them there, probably all thinking, 'bastard'. Further excitement was to occur in the form of raised voices and neighbourly interest, the replacing of two apparently okay and one poorly goldfish into the pond, and regular visits to peer anxiously into the pond, even this morning, when snow is lying crisp and even, as foretold. It strikes me that today would be a good day for the bible thumpers to return, as the goldfish are receiving visitors and could probably do with cheering up and promises of life everlasting. Me? I'm still in bed, I don't even need to move, can just look out the window and enjoy the theatrical activities, and compose a poem, I might call it Snow, Chills, Herons and Goldfish.