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A Fall of Snow In the Fifties Part 2

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 its 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 in this pristine sea, 
in search of bold adventure - but back in time for tea.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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