The frontdoor would slam
And the ‘auld fella’ was off to the pub.
On those winter nights, I would have her all to myself,
The blazing fire dancing our images
Like frog toed shoes, on the diverse pattern of the wallpaper.
Crackling sparks stinging the soot walled hearth;
With it’s light teasing back her lost beauty.
After awhile she would make us both cocoa,
And toast fresh cut slices of bread, over the flames –
A taste and aroma that remains an archaeological treasure,
Forever buried in my memory –
The hot sweet drink seducing my soul, for later dreams.
Then she would lay back her head
And begin to sing.
Old songs, older then her own songs,
Her eyes wide open. As if there were people
Only she could see,
But had been there, waiting on cue all the time.
I would close my eyes and try to enter her dreams,
Cuddling into the womb of her soft voice,
Reluctant to re-emerge from her shadow.
John Anthony Fingleton Mars 2016) (Löst Viking)