Sheila Jacob: a poem



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 ‘50’s 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.