In the dead of night

When the fire burns low
and the ashes are dirty
and they mount up, outside
it is below zero
with no wind, no moving air
and all the mounded snow
is still - then it is

I hear the toll
of all the years and I feel
the scars on my skin,
the hidden, weeping wounds
unseen - then

I hear the voice call time
call closing
and the door shuts with
lock then bolt
inside-look - all the guilt
all the words in all the
pages of the world
passed through my eyes

the sticks and stones did hurt me
they did break my bones
and all the nasty spitting
words were knives.

I put more fuel on to
make the coals burn bright

again, but there is no rubber
that can minimise
lines in my palm
and no heat left
that can make me feel warm.

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