Seasoning
If I'm winter –
and I think I must be
as I comb the white drifts
in my hair and count
down the hours
to my seventieth birthday –
let me be a softfall
of overnight snow
and the bones
of a moonlit birch.
If I'm winter –
and I know I must be
though I was born
when roses blushed
beneath open windows
and school bells
rang for summer –
let me be a flowering
of hoarfrost and echo
of ice on a frozen lake.
Now I'm winter
let me be the scent
of cinnamon and cloves,
the drape of fleece
and candlewick,
the blaze of holly berries
and a garden robin
who lands on the gate
before dusk
and sings, sings.
Sheila Jacob lives in North Wales with her husband. She was born and raised in Birmingham and resumed writing poetry in 2013 after a long absence. She is frequently inspired by her working-class ‘50s childhood. Her poems have been published in a number of UK magazines and webzines. Last year she self-published a small collection of poems dedicated to her Dad, who died when she was fourteen.