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,

©  2010 Charlotte Chase
Photo by Authspot.