Words: Rosie Howe
Embracing solitude for warmth
Cold winters bite my lonely soul
Which lies susceptible and vulnerable
Without a protector or comfort.
My nib scratches the surface of silence,
Tearing away all society.
Am I alone? Guarded by none but a pen
for a kukri and ink for venom?
Open are the wounds of my words,
The wounds of my heart? Stagnant.
My happy dagger crimson with blood
And love and tears and conviction.
Companionless my quill lies lonely
In her frosted cage where once flew
Two others, now lost. Their songs
Echo in the lone survivor’s ear, burning
Her heart, an everlasting whisper of envy.
The quill responds, distinct but shrill
Without the harmony of her kin.
The warmth of their company
Soon becomes extinct like ink
That dries too quickly on unfinished words.
Alone I scratch restless ghosts into the bureau,
Such melancholy, wintry words
That beg endlessly for the warm feathers
Of those long departed;
Sisters lost to the merciless sky.
The cage door ajar, my quill flies
Over heather lush hills and sings
Its last song to that summer breeze
As parhelion inkblots shine
On the white sheets of heaven.
Stand atop the Dale’s bronze hills,
You’ll hear on the western wind
Three celestial voices
Coiled in eternal harmony. Listen.