Those Winter Sundays
A Tackk created by a group of second year pupils from Newbridge College having read the poem 'Those Winter Sundays' by Robert Hayden. The pupils were given a short creative writing task, having reflected on the poem, and asked to describe what a cold winter Sunday feels like to them.
' As the dream I was dreaming leaves me, and the beaming light blinds me, I walk on the cool wooden floor. Dad is in the kitchen. He has sausages on the grill. The family blocks out the cold'
' I awake and stumble out of my room, porridge filling my numb nostrils. It warms the core...it warms the soul'
'Dreary eyes, muscles stiff, warm bed. I hear the bustle of family but feel the cold dark day. I settle back into the bed's embrace'
'I woke early and rose into a wall of cool air'
'The cold bites into my skin. The car window is frozen with a thick sheet.'
'Disorientated and confused I wake to the sound of nothing. My cosy bed leaves me and my body turns to ice'
'I place my tender feet on the stone cold ground. My shoulders tense. I think a happy memory. I picture the family I am doing this for. I pull the trigger'
' I see the stool, the rope: it must be today. Last night she said goodnight, last night I said goodbye. She didn't seem to notice the rope pulled taut. A scream'
' The alarm bell calls. I look at the condensation on the window. Mum's radio: the only blanket from the outside world'
' There was a difference in the air this morning. It was winter, I could tell. It seeped through the concrete. Most of it was barely masked by the metallic-tinged warmth of the rusted heater. Even though this heat did brace me from the cold, I was unsatisfied. In the chain-hanging board that was my bed, I tried to picture something better. A heart, perhaps. A fire that performed a thousand dances as flickers of gold and streaks of red chased each other. My nose pricks at the smell of imaginary flame and smoke. I sit up, my back muscle screaming and force myself onto my feet'