Memories of an Exmoor boyhood.
I’ll tell you a story you won’t believe,
of the dreadful Winter of sixty-three,
when for three long months only white was seen.
apart from the waves and the rushing stream,
country and cities covered in snow,
no colour but white wherever you go,
the tarmac roads unsullied by tyres,
families huddled round smoking fires,
waves stood frozen at the waters edge,
with icicles hanging from every ledge,
while up on the moors where the snowdrifts rise,
their tall peaks reaching upward to the skies
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