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EVENTIDE
And now the close of evening,
Latched door and home at last,
Wrapped by the frame of oak rafters,
Visions of yesteryear past.
An ‘A' support in the attic,
Heavy shouldered weary load,
Burning logs inside a stone grate,
Smoulders now the day has slowed.
Dark night whispers quite near now,
Sacred corners infused by cones of pine,
Nestled neatly in the hearth place,
Fragrant silence is divine.
The wind howls through trees beyond the garden,
Leaves rustle then fall to the ground,
Nothing can disturb the semblance,
This special place has found.
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