Stave 1
Bareheaded and barefoot,
Frozen to the bone,
A little match girl walked
In the wintry night alone;
She had lost her slippers
In the deepening snow.
The pocket of her apron,
Ragged, thin and wet,
Held a bundle of matches
Waiting to be lit.
She feared a painful beating –
She hadn’t sold a match all day
And knew her hungry father
Would make her pay.
Snowflakes settled on her hair
As she gazed in windows bright,
Drawn by the scent of roast goose,
Enchanted by the light.
In a niche between two houses
The match girl made her bed.
She struck a match: a tiny candle
In the cup of her numb hands
Became a fire in a shiny stove,
So blissfully warm
That she stretched out her toes
To nothing – the match was dead.
© Kim M. Russell, 2015
Image found on en.wikisource.org
writing in north norfolk 