A down-feather sleeping bag

A bucolic home with windows wide

On a gently raising mound,

Green grass by the pond,

And virgin snow on the side.

Dirty stream of barley water,

Smokey herds of the sheep,

Beckoned the clear skies,

And us two, within.

By the warmth of the fire,

By the quiet of the night,

By the wit in your marrow,

You said we were not right.

“Happy Birthday”, sang I,

Curled up in a sleeping bag,

Waiting for the frost to take over,

Zipped and carted with a lag.

Left me on a mountain top,

Didn’t fret about the hop.

A million little pieces fell,

In that snowy little hell.

Someday, when I’m old,

Older than an oak,

I’d like to tell the story,

To my kin and folk.

I promise I will not cry,

As I cried that night.

But promises are seldom kept,

As you proved by the light.

 

 

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