She rattles at my window
with the damndest of [c]old [k]nights.
I tell her not just now my love –
the pale wolf, he bites.
She patters me with misery,
she wracks my bones with cold;
she knows not how she wearies me –
a rest, my sweet, I’m old.
I hear a lullaby in this, or maybe that good old ABAB rhyme scheme awakens some dormant childhood terror; like fairy tales, nursery rhymes are often horrific. You don't read this poem, it creeps into you.
ReplyDeleteLove that new banner, by the way, even if it does make me glad I haven't yet eaten breakfast.
A potent mood. A powerful mood.
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