wood

cold seeps through as
the light slowly fades -
a pale sky speaks of
frost and coming snows -
how still the trees, drifting
mist now gone, they wait

the road is quiet today
and I see no-one walk
in here the fire bursts
behind glass, raging orange
quiet-breathing-roar -
slowly the radiators are
hot

cold creeps around the
workshed as he crafts
felled wood, into a 
useful tool for winding
skeins, his quiet thoughts
deft hands
rising in the air like
smoke from a fire

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