It is the days
we do not spek of
that turn our lives.
It is the cold
which makes us yearn
for houses made of woolen.
We are caught...
In the endless Bric-a-Brac.
The absurdity of it all.
We are the children
of men in winter,
mad sailors,
and silent snow.
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 3:42 PM UTC
It is the days
we do not spek of
that turn our lives.
It is the cold
which makes us yearn
for houses made of woolen.
We are caught...
In the endless Bric-a-Brac.
The absurdity of it all.
We are the children
of men in winter,
mad sailors,
and silent snow.
Written also by my sister Poet Laureate Adelaide C Dyson