Nothing stirred but the senses

Nothing stirred but the senses

As the child stood

The door flung wide

Maybe not a time for the somnambulist this cold night

‘Whisht now…go back to bed.’

Gently said

His mother stood behind him

Watching, as he returned from whence he came

Leaving her to wonder at the splendour

Of the sight

The slope of his shoulders in passing

The shock of blond hair

So like his late father.

‘Nothing could replace him’

She heard the soft wind whisper

As the trees in the orchard

Leaned their laden heads forward

Weighed heavily in snowbound glory

The frost, biting into her bones

Through the cotton of her old nightgown

That once was ripped away

By the ardour of her lover

Now so long gone

Buried beneath the frozen earth

At the bottom of the west field

Next to their firstborn

In the shade of the old Oak

Where so many of her days were spent

In quiet contemplation

“No more sadness to sully this fine night.”

She whispered, the words hung

In the air,

Barely able to gather the strength

To dissipate

“Too little of me is left

To spend my nights alone and grieving

How long must I wait,

Once more to find the majesty of life.

I have much to be thankful for

The memories we shared

The fruit of our love

The bounty of our blessed land

Help me to understand

The weft of things

I will not let this ague be the

Template of my undoing.”

There were no answers

The wind sighed but she found little satisfaction in it

The stars stared blankly down

Whilst the moon refused to smile

But the snow lifted in a restless flurry

Across the icy field where the old barn stood

Dark against the whitening

And she was sure

She could hear a distant whistle

A cheery tune

To close the door upon

The fire, a welcome sight

The ancient house, a living breathing comfort

For her and the two boys

On this cold midwinter night.