Sunday, June 19, 2011


A fickle wind blew outside my door,
Beckoning me towards the moor,
With frozen feet, around I crept,
While the hounds on barren floorboards slept.
So beleaguered was I with cruel unrest,
 That limbs of my own upon none such request,
Sought fit to carry me out the garden,
With frozen sprouts and flowers all trodden;
The hounds awoke to find me outside,
And no explanation I could provide,
Would clarify: by what implement
Did my body divine such discontent
As to send me thusly from safety’s bed
To amble through the bog to catch chill like the dead?

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