December 1940
He wakes to a white brightness,
snubs his nose against the window.
Snow is gloving bare trees,
bandaging gates and fences,
furring the barracks yard.
If it’s snowing back home
Mom will be lathering smalls,
to-ing and fro-ing between sink
and washing-line, moulting
ice over the kitchen floor.
He grins at the thought.
Fresh snow deep-cleansing undies,
turning the gasworks into a giant
cotton reel, plopping in the cut
and melting like Epsom Salts.
Here, snow yields to the scrunch
of shiny boots etching pathways
that criss-cross, zig-zag, mulch
and freeze beneath more showers.
By nighttime, the yard is ermine.
On duty, he swaps rifle for spade.
Waiting for Christmas, Soldier?
“No Sarge, sorry Sarge†– shovels
slowly, kneads two silver handfuls
and lobs snowballs into the air.
© Sheila Jacob, from Through My Father’s Eyes
Picture 10922759, WW2 greetings card, image copyright Mary Evans / March of the Women Collection
Sheila Jacob was born and raised in Birmingham, and lives with her husband in North Wales. She resumed writing poetry in 2013 after a long absence. She’s had poems published in Sarasvati, Reach Poetry, The Dawntreader, The Cannon’s Mouth, Clear Poetry and The Blue Nib, amongst others, and on various webzines including Atrium and The Poetry Village. In March 2019 she self-published a chapbook of poems, Through My Father’s Eyes. The poems form a tribute to her father and his working-class upbringing in Birmingham.
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