The Trouble With Snowmen

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.