Marooned in West Sussex

When the cold and icy breeze,

Comes a whistling through the trees

And finds ways in, through the cracks;

Time to stuff them up with sacks!

When branches creak in the storm,

Wildlife’s at its most forlorn.

Stack the logs and find the matches;

Time to ‘batten down the hatches’.

When snow’s on roof, inches deep

And drive’s blocked with drifts quite steep;

Get the shovel, start to clear.

We’re marooned for days, I fear.

When central heating’s going strong,

Fingers crossed, it won’t go wrong.

Hot water pumping through the pipes.

From windows, condensation wipes.

Get the sledge, clump up the hill,

Whizzing down at speed’s a thrill;

Past the rockery, past the shed

And land up in the flower bed!

Goldcrests and tits, feel the cold,

Desperate in winter’s hold.

Give them water and some seed,

Packed in tubes, for them to feed.

Don your wellies, coat and scarf;

Take a walking stick or staff.

To the shops, for some victuals;

Children tumbling down like skittles.

Home again, for tea and toast;

Chestnuts by the fire to roast.

Glass of wine, a sleepy head.

Time to take ourselves to bed.

Don Filliston