The rover no longer feels its stones.
Your windows are steamed by dumpling laughter
The snowplough's buried on the drifted moor.
Carols shake your television
And nothing moved on the road but the wind
Hither and thither
The wind and three
Starving sheep.
Redwings from Norway rattle at the clouds
But comfortless sneezers puddle in pubs.
The robin looks in at the kitchen window
But all care huddles to hearths and kettles.
The sun lobs one wet snowball feebly
Grim and blue
The dusk of the coombe
And the swamp woodland
Sinks with the wren.
The ‘snowball’ is a human approximation of this minute demonstration of the sun’s power. Kind of like God clearing his throat. 
 
 There’s always a bit of  via negativa  in Hughes– the idea that in order to understand something this colossal (it was a theological term, initially) you must first accept total ignorance of its magnitude, then work from there.
Christmas Card