Hi!
At the risk of seeming merely controversial, and pace Robert Mezey’s judgement (with whom I find myself more often than not concurring), isn’t "A Winter Day Before the War" just a piece of lineated prose - and not very distinguished prose, at that? - Thus:
Hidden a week in a blizzard, the sun came out and glittered on the snow; the sky was indigo. We went out to visit, Mother on snowshoes, a few of us kids on skis, when the air was so sweet it made you happy to breathe. We talked with two ladies on their stoop where icicles shone and dripped and went around Nellie Smith's gift shop to see an icicle a foot thick on the north side of the house. Nobody said that day was marvelous, but it must have been if it can stand out that clear in the mind, and bright when so many other days are forgotten or marked by something that happened. A day like that: well, who knows. Maybe any day.
What am I missing here?
Clive Watkins
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