Wednesday, 2 November 2011

Winter Pyre

Now, as winter  fires 
fall soft and low,
and the snow is tossed 
and blown about,
I find in the blankets 
of my weary head,
the comfort of things
I might of said.
In my tiny bed 
of make believe,
the dragons, the demons 
are glad to leave.
And the icy chill that wraps 
the window pane,
is lost to the warmth and wonder
within my brain.
So, the wind may blow,
the fire may die,
but neither can ever
ferret why . . .
I smile
I choose to ignore their face
gone to the memory 
of some happier place.