Early shadows black
And gusty winds from snow topped hills
Mixed the North winds moan.
To aid the creak of beams of oak
And set the scene for tea at dusk.
A silent house and blue tinged sky
Tree tops bend and sweep.
An unfettered Northern blast.
An arm, or out reached hand demands again
A re-run of the past.
The last poem I wrote in 2018.
It almost sounds like Haiku. The theme of returning and reruns always seems to hit close to home for me too during winter, especially on Christmas.
ReplyDeleteI remember that night. It was the first night of true winter.
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