Waiting for Spring. 1963.

Mid-winter howlers prowl the estate.
No dogs or bikes about.
A night nurse leaves, reluctantly, for work,
Pulling a scarf tight round her,
The wind whistles her round the lamp-post
As she disappears into the snow.

Silver shards of winter hang from sills,.
Diamond crystals in cinder paths
Crunch like Dick Barton’s 
Sound-effect footsteps
On the light programme. 

Every curtain is drawn 
Halos of light shine through thin curtains.

Paraffin heaters are dragged from attics
To lessen the obsidian cold 
Of the box room; the ice box.
You choose whether to freeze or suffocate.

Condensation runs down every window
Rotting the putty in time for Spring.
The ceiling yellows from cigarette smoke;
Even the canary coughs.

The beef bone broiling in the enamel pot 
Casts a greasy eye over us;
The pan-lid rattles in unison 
With the kitchen back door.

Christmas pine tree smell 
Mingled with barley-cane candles
Scented like Woolworths basement
Brand my memory.

Sylvia Plath has 6 weeks to live. 

Outside, the winter night is alone with its thoughts.
Not even a stray cat to annoy.
Waiting for spring.	

                                                       Sharyn Owen

WOKING AND WEST BYFLEET POETRY COMPETITION 2008:

FIRST Place