by Roger McGough (b. 1937)
'The trouble with snowmen,' Said my father one year 'They are no sooner made Than they just disappear. I'll build you a snowman And I'll build it to last Add sand and cement And then have it cast. And so every winter,' He went on to explain 'You shall have a snowman Be it sunshine or rain.' And that snowman still stands Though my father is gone Out there in the garden Like an unmarked gravestone. Staring up at the house Gross and misshapen As if waiting for something Bad to happen For as the years pass And I grow older When summers seem short And winter's colder. The snowmen I envy As I watch children play Are the ones that are made And then fade away.