One more poem
for the end of the year
make it clear and cold as the night
let it grow old
til it and the time
we remembered is gone.
If only I were in a different town,
one of my own
imaginings.
Tippling my cup with the likes
of old friends.
Some gone. Never forgotten.
Magically all whisked into one room.
I'd like some faerie dust
about now
to clear my gloominess away...
or perhaps I could go to
Scotland.
I've read in Scotland
on New Year's Eve,
no one is a stranger.
Each home is an open invitation,
to whomever cares to
venture within
for reprieve.
All share the fire
the laughter and the drink.
That's got me to think-ing
about what it means to be
of good will.
At the stroke of twelve,
the doors,
both front and the back,
are opened to let one year in
while the other is bid good morrow.
There isn't any sorrow.
Only raising of cups.
And shared cheer.
What a charity of hearts.
Glad tidings to all.
I'd like to be there.
Instead I am here.
But...there's
no more cold left in
this poem.
I'm flying to Scotland
on my magic carpet,
if only in my mind.
My old friends will
fly with me
we'll make a carpet convoy
in the sky.
Off to the land
where one night each year
all are friends
none are lonely
join us.
We'll be waiting,
right here.
(my oh my this spiced grog is so good....)
Copyright December 31,2012 All Rights Reserved By this Author
Melissa A Howells/Meloo Tilt-a-World
