Tuesday, September 17, 2013

South of My Days Circle

Oh, they slide and they vanish 
as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror's cards. 
True or not, it's all the same; and the frost on the roof 
cracks like a whip, and the back-log break into ash. 
Wake, old man. this is winter, and the yarns are over. 
No-one is listening 
South of my days' circle. 
I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country 
full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep. 

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