winds claw at the glass;
the old man reflected that
his life had been the same ⎯
looking out beyond the black moor
to an unspoken horizon,
unwitting
in its distance,
calling the dead from
their distant graves,
through blizzards
lost in memory,
pasts written
on lost fragments
like the patched sheepskin
that draws his slumbers on,
into the dream
of escape.
Comments