Winter’s Child
Into this world in bitter cold –
Brother and sister rosy-cheeked
Fresh from playing in the snow,
A luxury, a game to them;
My screams perhaps a little louder
For the blast of Ballarat cold
Upon my newly disclosed flesh,
The summer of my mother gone –
(In this weather there is nothing
To do but huddle.)
Fire blazes as I bathe,
Bucket-clad before the flames,
The water’s warmth a
Room for me.
And so it starts:
A lesson in the way of seasons;
The smile on my face defies
July’s worst needles –
(In this weather there is at least the refuge
Of warmth which comforts like a pulsing heart.)
The Consolations of Writing 