Snow falling on East Stoke

When I woke up last Friday, I was aware of a different texture to the light - I pulled open the curtains - I looked out at the garden below me - large snowflakes whirled past the window - a dull white sky hung low over the valley - the light was dim, as though we had been transported into a vast shadowy space - thick snow covered the lawns - the firs and the apple tree were vague white shapes - all was very still - no Waterloo trains raced along the railway line beyond the hedge - 

I got dressed very quickly, and went outside - I felt the same excitement I'd felt as a skinny boy in the winter of 1962 - then, the snow had lasted for many weeks, heaped up on the sides of Bramber Road in grey frozen mounds - the sea was iced over in the harbour - I'd walked, with my dad, over the thick ice covering the moats of Fort Brockhurst - man high rushes splintered when we pushed our way  through them - the rushes had been turned by the winter into fragile ice spears - 

I stood under the white branches of the apple tree, looking up at the falling snowflakes - there were no footprints of any creature upon the snow covered lawn - snow coated the slates of the roof of the house -

Later, I walked with Anne down the lane - we were thickly layered in wool - the world of our valley had been changed into a frozen one, beautiful and silent - only the river moved, swirling through the water meadows, now knee deep with snow - 

We saw three horses in a field, patient and noble, standing stock still - their winter coats were shaggy and furry - their breath steamed in plumes from their muzzles - 

I expected, any moment, to hear the runners of a sleigh, hissing upon the snow - would I be offered Turkish Delight, followed by a scalding cordial, served in a golden cup?