Cold nights
Cold nights
Frost on the window – on the inside,
Dive down the bedsheets and try to hide,
Covered all over from your feet to your nose,
Breathing away – to warm your toes.
Frost on the windows, breath you can see,
Hanging in the air, like a ghost’s legacy,
Drawing on the glass, with fingers going blue,
Pretty little patterns, like we used to do.
Frost on the windows, when we were young,
Bedsheets and blankets hastily flung,
Curled in a ball there, head meeting feet,
Warming the cold air, yearning for heat.
Frost on the windows, all was the same,
Cold freezing bedrooms, ice on the pane,
‘Hot oven plate’, or a ‘stone jar’ in bed,
Warming your toes, but exposing your head.
Frost on the windows, that’s how we were,
Living in cold homes, with feathers not fur,
Stay below the blankets, till the room was warm,
Didn’t really hurt us, didn’t do no harm!
Mick
(Copyright Michael Westwood 2014)
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