What sits there in my little house,

The smell of burnt wood,

A frost in the air,

The comfort of being swallowed,

Empty and cold – an afterthought.

My house, my house in cold grey stone,

sitting atop a hill of green velvet –

draped in a canopy of leaves and clouds.

I sit curled in a heap on the floor,

skin against wood to feel it’s chill.

Smothered by safety and blue flowered walls.

Not to be moved, never to leave –

I wander still in barefoot delight.

On a winter’s night

With the scent of burnt wood.