Memories

 

Woolen mittens cover chilblained hands,
tears before bed Mother understands.
An ill-fitting black gabardine mac.
Walnuts in a bowl by the fire to crack.

 

Frosted window panes greet the morning light,
as the dawn of the day replaces the night.
A winter wonderland for small fingernails to scrape.
Whilst a shivering Mother has the breakfast to make.

 

Covers pulled up quickly, over a wet bed.
Tears, as to the table the children are led.
Reading the back of the cereal packet,
Sister and Brother making a racket.
Cornflakes and toast if we have bread,
snotty noses wiped and off to school we head.

 

Just missed the solo in the school choir
running home in tears tripping in the mire.
Just missed being Mary in the nativity,
'You can be narrator with your photographic memory.'

 

Rummaging through jumble sales,
washing clothes in the bath.
Dad is acting silly and they are having a laugh.

 

Burning old shoes during the miners strikes.
No warmth to be had as we huddle round the fire,
the stink of burning rubber as the flames leap higher.
Running to the shop to buy candles for the night.
Rivers mountains and streams played by candlelight.

 

A serial joiner, of every church and group in town,
I remember telling Mum, and how she used to frown.
I would head off to Sunday school, Mum and Dad still in bed.
I just could not wait for those Bible stories to be read.

 

Christmas time, draft sherry and port, 
Dad's few bottles of beer bought.
Toffees on the tree, the snowglobe on the hearth.
Nylon nighties changed into before lunch,
a bagful of nuts on which to munch.

 

Mum and Dad happy for that one day in the year,
children hoping the atmosphere would never disappear.

 

Children now all grown up and gone.
Never had much of any real value,
except memories which remain clear and true.

 

©2018 Taylor Crowshaw

 

 

An excerpt from The Slumbering Pines available on Amazon