A memory poem of winter mornings in the 1960's
We didn’t feel the cold back then,
it was simply there-
woven into the fabric of winter mornings,
etched into the silence of the house.
The single paned windows were dressed in white lace
stitched by Jack Frost as he worked through the night.
I’d kneel on the little piano stool beneath our bedroom window.
My warm breath fogged the glass,
my fingers scratched at the ice,
not to destroy it, but to see through it-
just a tiny glimpse of that magical world beyond.
There was no heating in the house,
just a single fireplace in the lounge.
We ran around, laughing and squealing,
barefoot on the lino floor.
No, we didn’t feel the cold back then.