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Saturday, October 30, 2010

GOTHIC

The hour is late and he is gone for good, at last.
I welcome the howling storm this night
as the furious wind is blowing past our lone cottage.
The shadow cast by the oil lamp hides no threat
as the rain's percussion is hard and fast. Our home's
the haven we craved at last. Lightning's our trumpet;
each strike proclaims that we are saved.
My good dogs were restless, followed me
with their round brown eyes. When I spoke,
they settled, stretched, laid down their heads.
The fire, one far more generous then he'd allow,
warms our souls and cooks our mutton stew.
My tabby cat, calm and curled on the hearth,
will not cringe from heavy boots tonight.
We four, two dogs, one cat, and I,
have had sweet comfort, ease,
since I returned and fiercely cried,
"The deed is done and he is bound for hell at last,"
And even now, the screaming wind is blowing past.

1 comment:

Karen said...

This is beautiful, feels like a true haven.