Love the smell
Of the Sun
On my skin
Revel conversation
With the devil
Within
Convenience of heat
No need to plan
Believe it or not
I’m a complex man
When Winter comes
Can find comfort
In cold
All wrapped up
Watching the fire
Smould
Something so sensual
Seeing breath exhale
Inner strength
No place
For the frail
England’s four seasons
Could be our life to live
When our Winter arrives
Should there be
Nothing to give?
Mark Scotchford © 3/08/2021
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