Memories of an Exmoor boyhood.
I’ll tell you a story you won’t believe,
of the dreadful Winter of sixty-three,
when for three long months only white was seen.
apart from the waves and the rushing stream,
country and cities covered in snow,
no colour but white wherever you go,
the tarmac roads unsullied by tyres,
families huddled round smoking fires,
waves stood frozen at the waters edge,
with icicles hanging from every ledge,
while up on the moors where the snowdrifts rise,
their tall peaks reaching upward to the skies,
no fodder for the flocks of sheep,
frozen and buried under snow so deep,
with no road transport villagers said,
how can we live without milk or bread,
the peoples plight was soon relayed,
and a plan decided for their aid,
the only way to ease their plight,
was by using a helicopter’s flight,
daily trips were undertaken,
so the country folk were not forsaken,
on country roads many cars were buried,
but the snow and cold would not be hurried,
for twelve long weeks the cold steel hand,
firmly grasped our once fair land,
till one day late into the Spring,
the Sun had a re-awakening,
when Mother Earth the sun’s rays felt,
the covering began to melt,
the roads and trains were free again,
the melting helped by Springtime rain,
towns and villages now were free,
to lead their lives quite normally,
although the sun’s rays always burn,
we wait in dread for the cold return.
When the pen takes control. 