Venetian Snow Drifts

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There are flecks of white drifting in diagonals against the textured bricks, adding their own layer to the earthy damp colours and crumbled and floodstained stone. We open the window and try to catch a few, and indeed a few settle on our clothes but melt to the touch and gusts of cold recieve shouts for warmth and we close the window hurrying then to finish dressing. Racing through corridors we stumble outside in our own little twirl, spinning to catch the swirling snow, and in our faces it is so soft, a tiny breath of cold that tickles just the slightest but in truth is a touch that is barely there, just a whisper of cold, a whisper of a tissue, yet they gather more firmly on my clothes and on other surfaces till we resemble lamingtons in our coats, the black wool flecked with coconut flakes. We stick our tongues out to taste the snow, cold little pricks that melt to fast to feel their full flavour, spinning still and whooping with joy we are as children all again, gaily singing this sweet winter song on the edge of a Venetian canal, the green blue of its waters with its docks gathering blankets of airey fibres of snow, the little brown shaggy dog pattering past dotted with snow, the various coloured facades with sills and rooftiles turning white, and us, becoming ever more the whiter till we have to go and once in shelter are quick to turn to sodden wet. Later in Saint Marks Square we gather snow into our mittened hands and pat it into balls which we hurl at the ground to see smash or aim lightheartedly at each other but don't progress to fighting. The gondolas rocking in their docks are dusted heavily in white, behind them the brightness of the canal's blue green against a pale grey white sky and infront a lantern in pink glass set into dark green iron with a fine upper layer of white, the colour and the noncolour, monochrome and chrome in harmony and the snow still drifting down, so beautiful and magical we can forget the cold and just marvel that we are in Venice, Venice and its the first time I've experienced falling snow and snow banks on a city. I can forget easily the horrors of our stinking hotel and just marvel at the wonder of this unique city. The snow lasts till about noon before even the last few flakes have ceased yet there is still snow banks to play amongst, on the back of the boat I remove my glove to touch the snow firmly, it burns cold as it melts beneath my palm and I leave an imprint that resembles more of a chubby child's hand than my own but perhaps thats just a sign of the age that I feel, and on untrodden snow I step large and then small in a circle on the spot to make flower patterns with my boots, playing at creating different kinds with different steps. I would like to dance too when its falling but its too slippery and there's still a bit of adult sensibility left to spoil the child's fun but I am blissfully happy nonetheless for the experience of snow in Venice.