Photo by Edurne Chopeitia on Unsplash

In my cottage in the hills
I am immune to the world’s ills,
or so I like to think.
On evenings of freezing fog,
I throw another log on the fire
watch closely as the flames reach higher,
take another sip of whiskey
stroke the back of my young dog,
Who feels the spirits in the breeze,
pick my book up from the stone cold floor.
Reading Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ is an epic journey:
‘Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light’.
I try to keep my goal in sight during the day, as well as  during the watches of the night,
but life is hard and troublesome, and I am bothered by dreams
which tell me that all that I do, or say, or write, will fade in time,
will vanish quite, but I will never cease trying,
finally, to arrive back at my childhood,
for the child is the father of the man,
then I will truly know myself, for the first time.

That’s the plan.