A little something for the weekend?

Saturday:

The snow was forecast. We had been warned. And so it was, at about 4pm, a few small flakes fell as I came back from the shops. Not enough to stick. Not at first. But it was pretty cold.

By the time I had come in and made a cup of tea the snow fall had thickened a little: I could see that the bonnet of my husband’s blue car had a coating of icing sugar.

By supper time when we looked out at the patio we saw this

and laid the dining room table.

Pippi went out. Than asked to come back in and the snow looked like a glittered Christmas card.

Sunday

The world was white and grey. The snow covered everything and the sky was a uniform grey. Outside, the wet snow clumped well into snowballs and dripped steadily from the trees. The teenagers stayed in bed. We stayed in the house.

After lunch I proposed a walk. No one was keen. Cycloman came out of duty, I think.

Down by the canal the water’s surface was covered in sludgy ice: someone had thrown snow balls, twigs and bricks at it.

the track through the wood was marked with numerous footprints

and it was treacherous underfoot:  in my wellies I nearly lost my footing several times.

Back home I cleared the driveway and the car windscreens, working up quite a thirst and then came indoors, glowing, which was more than the sky could be bothered to do, I thought. No decent photos today.

But not long after this, as I stood at the sink, peeling potatoes, listening to ‘Poetry Please‘ a little pink light broke through in the sky and I abandoned the potatoes and pulled on my wellies, just to capture this

After I came back in the pink faded and the blue-light intensified and reminded me of my childhood. I prepared my own version of Cumin Carrots, (thank you Celi for the introduction!) to go with the Roast Duck crowns I’m trying this week. (That’ll be with roast potatoes, carrots, parsnips and peas. And afterwards a lemon orange surprise pudding.)

And here, lastly is a poem which I wrote about the really cold British winter of 1963

 

Cold Comfort

Winter 1963

 

Outside, the snow-light forms blue-white silence.

Inside, snug in the small-windowed kitchen

half listening to my mother and her mother

as they knit the world to rights, I play.

 

Then Gran’ma makes her point

and puts down her needles.

She takes my comfort cloth

and knocks open the Rayburn door.

 

You’re much too old for this she says,

The orange glow reflects on her face

as flames flare through the fabric

in the belly of the range.

 

Later Mother wipes my nose

and leads me to the cupboard

where I discover that my burned blanket

was just one quarter of the whole

 

she shows me our secret,

the folded pieces she’s stitched to stop the fraying

– one to wash, one to wear and one spare.