He lays the runes of log and stick.
Wood cracks and groans, smoke sighing
out to the grey-thick chill.
His walls are thin with
rot, dry and musty.
At night, gnawing rodent teeth
search for the still alive places.
When he brushes across his face
all he feels is the cold air stirring
behind a vanished dream –
the streets of his boyhood have become
a grey river strewn with ice floes.
He holds his hands out to the dancing orange;
no warmth as he waits
for a pale thread of sun
across the barren floor.
