The Smoke of Winter
Winter comes and goes
though when she is here, she can not be forgotten, you can not elude her
in the way she effaces the final lingering hope of Spring, of Summer
so faint now, the sun nothing more than a tantalising sphere of ice.
At home there is the fire, imbuer of warmth, of something close to happiness
but this lasts only a few days before the ice steals it all again -
leaving behind only a sharp smell of smoke, creeping into each room.
The night arrives too - in a different form
now as iron, as steel, as a weight which covers the mind, the soul, and it aches.
Night is not kind to the children, the darkness a thing far too cruel to cling too
but what is left?
I prepare the pyre - the only way in which I can warm my body
my bones.
Posted Jun 20, 2022, 10:49 AM UTC