He sits looking out the window.

He sits looking out the window

Night has fallen in his house of words

Mercury dropping, taste of hot whisky awaits

Soon it will be zero hour, brightness awaits

He huddles beside burning embers

Windows and doors shuttered against all weathers

Bolted tight against the thief

Yet the threat of entry remains

Daybreak will see him back at his desk

The aroma of coffee will fill the room

He will rummage through his books

Letters will be scrawled across pages

The dog will comfort himself by the open fire

He is not a painter yet his words in time

Will form a wordy picture.

Poetry from The Man Shed

03/01/2020

~The Poet’s Poet~