|
| |
Mittens
Little Lillian lost us
two, a widower of warmth,
we’ve been waiting here….patiently,
for wherever has she gone?
Night’s airing scary notions,
her hands beaten bare,
we cosseted,
but days before,
in vermillion thread.
Mildly mucky mittens,
almost good as new,
will she ever find us
by this puddle
of blue?
We're alone,
but together,
clinging tightly to our cords,
nocturnal nomads now
….merciful…
may she arrive to help us home.
A three, we do belong,
keeping fingers
from the cold,
mustn't be without
our lady Lillian
for too long.
Copyright ©
Kate Davies
|
|