Chilblains
These frosty mornings
take me way way back -
walking to school
in the care of big sister.
Nowadays the roads are packed -
big cars chauffeuring
the littlies. Not then.
There was a bus for a few;
mostly they walked
and not with a parent,
who'd waved them off
serenely at the front gate.
I recall no traffic to fear.
The grass by the roadside
glittered with frost.
Our feet were already chilled -
stomping on icy puddles
was not done more than once.
Our ears tingled with cold.
After a week or so of this,
thick flaky skin formed where
the least blood reached your ears.
Chilblains,ı said Mother, itchy?
Don't pick! or they'll bleed.ı
We picked, it was compulsive
fingernail work; they bled.
That was Hawkes Bay.
Years later - hired in milder
Auckland by the P.M.G -
postman six mornings a week,
Iıd rise at six, put on my uniform,
sort from seven, out by nine
walking the still-frosty streets -
back they came, itchy chilblains
on the ears. Come summer,
theyıd burn, and peel.
Ah, those wet winters!
At their worst, Iıd shelter
on someoneıs front veranda,
till the storm was easing
chomping chocolate raisins,
reading undelivered magazines
from my sodden leather satchel,
getting home late for a hot bath.
Or when the sky's clearing,
a high rainbow glowing,
everything glistening,
you're also shining.
The outdoor life is best
the four winds, the sunıs arc,
the rains, the bodyıs
dignified weathering.
Sad...I became sedentary,
indoorsy, pale, except for
the arm that rests on the driverıs
window. Walking early now,
for my sake and the dogıs,
I feel proudly vulnerable,
venturing out before
the dayıs warmed up, capped
and booted, weatherproofed,
sidestepping the frost.
Then back inside, playing
on the Web, or with books, lost.
Max Richards in wintry Melbourne
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