On a bright, leafless winter day
Mares’ tails foretell freezing rain
And boy, the sad dribble of five
Bucks worth of heating oil
Hitting the bottom of the empty
Tank is a gloomy sound even in
Sunlight.
But the groan of the furnace running
Dry on a howling wet night
And full knowledge of how cold
The morning floor in the hex tile
Bathroom and then rice alone
For breakfast can just about break
A nine-year old heart.
Author: Duncan MacNae
Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees.
duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com
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