Lambing
That year of the Great Snowfall,
With the landscape disturbed,
And daily life uneasy,
The farmer from along the lane,
Walked into our best room,
Where all was matching
And the ornaments dusted,
Without even knocking.
The electric fire radiated,
My mother being delicate.
His snow encrusted boots
Mottled the carpet; bottles
Protruded from each pocket
And in his arms two lambs.
Primordial, dignified he stood,
And careful in his speech
Iíd be obliged he said
Our shippon being overfull
The kitchen too. Bottles
Day and night. My mother
Gave the faintest nod
And from the mantle shelf,
Her role usurped
The china shepherdess stared down.
I am a widow, I wrote radio scripts, mainly Listen With Mother when the children were small, - £8 a story which meant new shoes for someone. Then life and teaching (in a childrens' hospital) intervened and I took up writing poetry as a kind of therapy after my husband's death. I have had several successes in competitions and have amassed several dictionaries. I have two adult children and enchanting twin grandchildren who love creative writing lessons.