a/n:this is written for DeathThouShaltDie as a belated prize from the reviewathon Sept to Oct 2021. I hope this is what you wanted:-)


Stormy Weather


A light and restless slumber, till an icy draught disturbs him,

So he pulls his blanket round him, well, the flimsy threads remaining:

Then he hears the barracks stirring, droplets running down the windows,

And the thump of feet on floorboards, and a cockney oath; complaining…

That it's raining.

~0~

There's a far too bright "Good morning!" from the bunk beneath the cursing,

As he sighs, and dresses quickly; lights the stove, sets water heating.

Guards outside are shouting orders, rousing all still sleeping soundly,

And the Colonel joins him there; accepts a mug, and nods in greeting…

Now it's sleeting.

~0~

Then he stumbles out for roll call, collar up, and layers wrapped tightly;

As the Sergeant tries to match each face to name and number…failing.

Count repeated; too much movement, too much talk to know for certain.

Count declared; the fear of transfer to the Russian Front prevailing…

And it's hailing.

~0~

The Kommandant approaches, snug in thick wool coat, fur lining;

Takes his time, despite the chill, pontificating, to and fro-ing.

While he shivers; coat and beret insufficient as protection;

And he tries to find some cover from the fiercer gales now blowing…

Oh…it's snowing.

~0~

He stamps hard to warm his feet, recalls the recent night's adventure,

And the careful scheme disrupted, and the fear he strove to master,

When the foe appeared too early, and they had to flee to safety;

With the vital plans recovered, just a whisker from disaster….

Snow falls faster.

~0~

He subdues his disappointment that the date has not been mentioned;

It seems no-one has remembered, though, perhaps, it's not surprising,

For, despite their covert missions, lines of razor wire surround them,

And each day is like another; dull, constrained, demoralising…

Storm clouds rising.

~0~

Time drags on, he's cold and sullen, hears the Colonel's words, protesting;

They're dismissed, the roll call's over and the lines of prisoners scatter.

He heads off towards the barracks, to its meagre warmth and shelter;

And he tells himself quite firmly, that his birthday doesn't matter…

High winds batter.

~0~

Back inside, he shakes his jacket, sees his bunk, is stunned to silence;

There's a chef's hat, neatly tailored; a clandestine undertaking;

And a box, with makeshift bow; inside, a cake with sugar frosting.

"Happy birthday, little mate, your turn to criticise our baking…"

Storm is breaking.

~0~

There's another smaller package; red wool scarf and matching mittens;

And he's warm, despite the temperature outside approaching freezing;

And the cake…he tastes a morsel, claims it's dry and short on flavour;

But his grin belies his words, it's clear to all he's only teasing…

Storm is easing.

~0~

So, he shares his cake with friends, a small but heartfelt celebration;

And the snow's now falling gently, flakes as soft as swansdown feather;

And his home is far away, and none can dare predict the future;

But he knows, whatever happens, they'll be facing it together…

Brighter weather.

~0~