The door brought with it a bristling
Wind, summoning a slight whistle.
And I sat and watched, two fingers caught between
Worn pages of a chapter. Who knew then what it might have
Took to blow those pages shut, never to be opened again.
Breeze followed close behind, an aroma
Of burnt trees and pine touched carefully
On the senses of the past. A time ago when a young lad,
Same of look, but youthful flourish, gallantly danced
Down the befallen crest of the estuary
And sung a tune of naivety.
The fire, next to my half empty glass,
Crackles soft, like the rustling of leaves,
Diminishing breath rusted still.
And the wind, that breeze, does burst forth,
Again, chilling me bare. A reactionary shiver
Produces, hairs stand straight as a twig, full of
Purpose. And I remember a time, long ago,
Of a winter so stark, and a boy so young.