Sparkatale

Somewhere, inside my mind, there lies a forest,

an ancient place, unvisited and vast,

where some small rays of sunshine still peek through

the canopy, so far above my head. 

And there, upon a hill all drenched in cloud,

there sits a noble ruin of a church,

its crumbling walls have long lain bare and roofless,

where voices never speak, and never sing. 

And from its door, a path continues on,

through gravestones buried in the undergrowth,

beyond the reach of any habitation,

where birds still sing in branches overhead.

A stream lies further still beyond the churchyard,

its soft and soothing song is carried round,

and deeper still the path meanders on,

more overgrown with every passing step.

And, in the deepest part of my own forest,

there lies a cottage, hidden from the pathway,

and from it wafts the smell of burning wood,

a fire glows softly at its gable end. 

And, just inside the door, I see your face,

the firelight glistening softly in your eyes,

and for what seems an age, I stare, transfixed,

as through the window, the daylight ebbs away.

And then you lead me gently out the door,

to see the light retreat into the distance,

and though the darkness looms not far behind us,

the last frail sunbeams dance upon on our faces.

And still, within that forest in my mind,

you hold my hand amid the twilight glow.

26.12.16