De L'air

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Walking up the incline
the inky ceiling darkens,
strands of silver ribbons 
float through the air.

A sharp intake of breath,
the senses tingle,
something being created 
as the skin brushes cold air.

'He's down in the garden'
she nods and smiles,
a whisp of smoke
suspended in air.
Hands deep in bubbles,
pots steaming in the far corner.
Home at last...
some things never change.

The heady scent of woodsmoke
the evenings creep closer,
drifting in across the carpet,
toes curling under, 
escaping the chill.

Beams become arms,
embracing ones dear.
The occasional spark as the 
embers glow brightly.

Lights dwindle down,
The house becomes silent,
the night becomes calm,
dawn is in the distance,
suspense is in the air.






©  2010 Charlotte Chase
Photo by Authspot.

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