It was 1947 the big snow had lay
It started in February and ended in May.
It ran to the top of the telegraph pole
And over thatched houses as if they were stole
The people did shiver the old ones pasted on
The turf was well saved but crusted there on
The sheep on the mountain disappeared like those homes
Were buried in caves of snow shrouded domes
A prod of the stick at eight feet below
a squel of the ram but no ewe did it show
Of 100 sheep a loss of just 9
Most of them father's and no of them mine
A rumour in town of the council's domain
The towns folk dug path ways to council's main lane
The heads of the people would pass by a store
Only their heads nothing else to the floor.
A child of the snow my father did say
He was but 13 his brother away.
A rare treat came hoping as tall as my pa
a hare of white coat as strange as they saw
They dined for a week on stew with pine nut
A gift out of winter from god's earthly hut
The snow finally melts and the sheep sprang about
Close to a famine but better than drought
My father sat watching from outside the thatch
Mother Annie spinning her socks that should match
This view down the mountain o're summer's sweet bog
He now drives his red bus through Birmingham's smog.