Billowing from the chimney pot
Swirling like ghostly cloud
Reminds of pine cone fragrance
Enveloping like a shroud
Brings to mind a forest covert
Knotted torso nobly stands a lord
Gnarled branches that have seen life
Veined hands where earth once poured
But that crisp white frosty morning
Where sun wouldn't show its face
One minute you were there: hold my hand
And the next: gone without a trace