The sky arranges itself.

Clouds gather like starlings

And the heart clenches.

The cat seeks out a warm spot in the kitchen,

And the kettle refuses to boil.

There is the weariness of waiting,

We feel it in our bones,

In the cold that reaches the very extremities of our bodies.

‘What will become of us,’ you ask,

Though you do not expect an answer

And there is none I can give that will satisfy you.

You would discard me

But I am useful for chopping logs,

And digging where the soil is heavy and clogged.

Come here, come here, the future calls.

But we cannot imagine it, and our feet refuse to budge.

So we remember, instead.

We remember the heat from the woodstove,

The shuttered windows,

The lamb roasting in the oven,

The whispered conversations from our warm bed.

We remember our happiness.

Now the leaves fall, the spotted leaves. We long for company, for a fellow human

To dissipate our sour mood.

We listen for footsteps

Though we know none are coming.

Tonight we will go to bed early

And pray, fervently, furiously

In the hope of waking up in a different world -

Or not waking up at all.

By Kevin McDermott

From:  Ireland

Twitter: SingMeCreation