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Bette J. Lakin

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Arundel Street, Portsmouth

February 11th 1963

Outside
the snow has frozen into miniature mountains.
On the window panes
patterns have been etched from our frozen breath.
The water in the bottle-warmer is solid ice.

I pace through the cold flat to the kitchen
turn on the gas,
warm my hands at the flames as the water boils
heating the milk for my son’s morning feed.

At Fitzroy Road, Primrose Hill
she writes a note to the nurse
places cold milk by her children’s bedside
carefully seals the room with tape and towels
paces through the cold flat to the kitchen
turns on the gas
but not for warmth.

We are of an age, she and I,
and the worst winter for over a century
had caught us both in its grip
cold and alone.

I pace back through the cold flat
the warm feeding-bottle wrapped in a towel.
In the distance
road-drills tattoo their way through the frozen landscape.

At Primrose Hill
workmen break their way into a house on Fitzroy Road
race through a cold flat to the kitchen
find her lying by the stove.

I rise from my warm bed
carry the empty feeding-bottle to the kitchen,
light the stove:
Prepare to face the day.

Page(s) 31-32

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