A Fall of Snow In the Fifties Part 1
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 winter's 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 windowsill,
bridging the cold linoleum and its 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 porthole 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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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