Burning Books
Night makes loud the sound of rain
Drowns the whistling in his ear
Trembling hand at window pane
Clears droplets so that he can peer
Upon the empty glistening lane
Willing the doctor to appear.
Dampness permeates the air
Emptiness he cannot feel
Thoughts are replaced with despair
Begins to doubt if this is real
Too fatigued to shift his stare
From what the night conspires to steal
The voice that speaks to him alone
Reminds him of his solemn vow
Whispers ‘till we old have grown’
That was long ago, but how
To take a stock of all they own
He knows full well the time is now.
Yet still he lingers, fails to act
Too long the refuge of his hope
Has served to make his thoughts retract
Through shadows past he starts to grope
Until he realises that
He must untie the mental rope.
A gentle cough flies through the gloom
Tugs at his heart to make him turn
And gaze across the cluttered room
Past stove now cold, (no fuel to burn)
To where a familiar perfume
Makes echoes of sweet bliss return.
