Winter At 'The Whistler' Poem by Lizzie Lum

Winter At 'The Whistler'



We all huddled around and lit a cigarette,
as rigid and stiffened as the old frosted village
we puffed less agreeably than those chimney pots
freezing together under the watch of ‘The Whistler’
named after that passerby who strolled through once
he whistled as he went, you all crouched nervously
I wasn’t present that day, it was before my time there
Instead wearing green at the girls’ school, not liking it

Smoke twirled blazers and pink woolen scarves
these plumes were proof we enjoyed it, surely
maybe the fog was clouds of frozen breath too
such were those nippy November afternoons
that pinched our noses and watered our eyes – we
trekked past the legendary cross on the roundabout
by the walled side of the tuck-shop and cricket pitch
past the white cottage that leaned in on the corner
turning into the alley just before the edge of freedom
over the pigsty in knee length skirts - or just above

We chitchatted the afternoon to dusk, huddled together
thoughts on the Orchard boys, holidays, next Saturday?
then it was time for tea up at The Abbey before books
hoping for ice cream that day, every day if truth be told
piping hot chocolate sauce that thawed the bowl to heaven
but none of it came before those peppermints and perfume
and the swift stride back up to the village clipped by cold


© 2013 Lizzie Lumsden All Rights Reserved

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