By Degrees
Spilling from the lintel,
a pitcher saves the ice from anonymity,
rafters creak, the sounds of winter
rattle through the cabin eerily.
Memories of dead and gone,
whistles of wind, the monotony
whispers and drags through the days
like a chilling lament.
Hours slip by slowly,
embers gradually dying,
reminiscences stutter and fade,
no lasting testament.
Evenings and mornings
now bleed with the same deep regret;
losing his feeling,
he's as cold as cold can get.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
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