A Fall of snow in the Fifties

One eye open, one half stuck, trying to pierce the gloom,
then noticing the stillness and the light within the room.
Nose as cold as a corpse's, one arm outside the sheet,
quick! bring it back inside the bed, let it feel the heat.
Blowing misty breath in pants, frost patterns on the pane,
boyish excitement rising, now that winter's here again.
Wanting to be up and about but loath to leave the warm
of the bed and the heavy blankets, cocooned from winters storm.

But now my mind is racing with the pleasures that lie ahead,
I really must make the effort to get up and out of bed.
On throwing back the blankets I'm forced to catch my breath
as the cold within my bedroom half freezes me to death.
Committed now, no going back, from the bed I pull a coat
as I stand on my island bedroom rug surrounded by lino moat.
The coat I wrap around me, lean from rug to window sill,
bridging the cold linoleum and it's icy winter chill.

I gaze at leafy patterns frost has etched upon the pane,
my hot breath melting them slowly but they quickly form again.
I clear a port hole in the frost and gaze at the wondrous sight,
the snow, still falling, is so thick it must have snowed all
night.
All is silent, not a creature moves in the street or the fields
beyond,
as if the Snow Queen has passed by and waved her magic wand
and cast a spell upon the land whilst everyone was sleeping
and the village is frozen in time and place, a picture for the
keeping.

Domestic sounds from the kitchen below creep under the bedroom
door
and I scamper, teeth a'chatter, across the bedroom floor.
Out of the bedroom and across the landing, down the stairs I
clatter,
Mother calls from the kitchen and asks, "Whatever is the matter?"
"I'm freezing cold", I answer, passing the kitchen at a pace,
"Has dad lit the fire?" I ask in hope, as into the lounge I race.
The glow of the fire draws me as I stand in it's heat and bake
on a rag rug made by mother which took ten weeks to make.

I curl my toes in its tactile warmth as the shivers slowly
subside,
my heat flushed cheeks glow apple red, in contrast to my cold
backside.
I turn around and warm my back 'til my front feels cold again,
then back I turn to warm my front 'til mother breaks the chain
arriving from the kitchen with tea and hot, buttered toast,
I pull the chair up to the fire to give my toes a roast.
"Wrap up warm if you're going out," mum says as she pours the
tea,
"and no going near that frozen pond, or you'll be the death of
me."

I give her empty promises I know I cannot keep
and try to reassure her by saying, "The snow is much too deep."
A hand knitted balaclava is pulled tight around my head
and in the absence of gloves, as mittens, old socks are used
instead.
With trousers tucked in wellies and wearing my old duffle coat,
I venture forth on a sea of white - a solitary boat
in search of other sailors adrift on this pristine sea,
in search of bold adventure - but back in time for tea.

?John Jones-February 2002