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.