Silver mother-tongue:
winter nights are still too short
to share you with friends.
If you must pass too:
let the murmur of the snow
be your only guide.
Our Falcon-hut
hugs its icy green mantle
closer to its heart.
Shrill squawks of delight
our boys, your boys: who can tell?
Bundled-up snowmen.
If laughter ceases,
what is left? Bring more mulled wine!
Games room rings with us.
Inside the prison,
outside of the storm,
I am laughing.
findingtimetowrite 