When the snow comes

I remember the first year
I came to Canada.
It was late fall and
the winter came early.
I think it was trying to
change my mind
and get me to go
back to England.
The fresh white snow flew.
Soon  it drifted over the pathways.
Silken windsocks of snow
filled the porch.
We all bought scarves
That wrapped about our faces
******* icy air through
woolen fibres.
I remember the houses turned grey
and the pristine white on the sidewalk
quickly turned to wet slush.
My boots felt heavy
and tight with long thick socks.
Gripping them to my feet.
Cars spluttered and coughed
A peephole of windscreen
with a driver peering into the gloom.
I decided to quit Canada
and go back.
But twenty five years later
I am still here.
And the snowfalls
do not bother me at all.