the howling whistles, shrills a ring
thunder on yet quietly sing
wondering else the winter bring
Snow flurries rush a frequent hale
slippery stone about here now
sitting and fishing, in the eve
caught ought else’ except a sneeze
A shivering shake, lying wide awake
Rayburn yearning, to bake a cake
no place left to call thine own
nothing remains of a once loved home
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