the cold
not in
the bones

not yet

but still
there is a winter
feel
to now

there is
a craving
for mulled wine

for strawberries
cream
of full summer
and attendant
lips

shit

a maudlin
passion
is a wasting
of scarce days

Milner, your N's frankness on the subject of death -- which seems to have moved into the spare room so they can talk to each other through the walls for the next fifteen years -- is become more personal and gripping with this poem. Tom

me sees the delightful play on mulled wine.  Des verres du vin from other life-times to be mulled over, re-tasted

Not so much else for those two to talk about except the dark of these short winter days, and the snow, Tom.

Happy you picked up on the mulling over the divine juice of the grape, Peter.

Thanks to you both (and the wine).

milner

milner;
this poem is just what i needed.  hey, when are you gonna have a new book out, buddy?  i need me some milner for my shelves.
john

now, this poem is smack dab where it belongs.
jy

Last of the Mulled Wine - now there's a TV programme I would watch.

This commands respect, Milner. I'll raise a glass to you. Single malt all right?

Cheers

David

simply wonderful.  i love the reflective nature, the self-examination. 
it feels so honest. real.

thanks,

tiko

Yeah!

Thanks, John, your opinion so highly valued, as are all voiced on this site. Putting something together now. Thanks also for the pick.

A single malt is fine, David. I respond with just a morning coffee, but nonetheless heartfelt.

A bow, Tiko.

'Yeah' is more than ample, Rick.

Cheers

milner

o my this is awesome, milner.

and I agree with John.

wonderful, delightful job.
cheryl

Thanks, Cheryl, 'awesome' will do for me!

Maybe it'll do to read at my 80th birthday do on the 25th (if that ain't tempting fate!).

milner

Can't believe you'll be 80 years old, milner.  But how cool is it that you're so bright and intelligent, and your memory is still intact.  I refuse to believe my mind has to go as my age grows.

My mom will be 87 on the 24th.  She's still very intelligent, but her memory, o my, can't describe how frustrating...but I love her.

Happy Birthday, milner,
cheryl

That thought of the brain power rapidly declining, pops into my head from time to time, Cheryl. What boots it with incessant care to deeply contemplate such morbid gloom? (Sorry Mr J. Milton)

Thanks

milner

Don't think on't! :)

Many of the traits that characterize and define the stages of our lives go unnoticed while we're busy living. When we are cognizant enough not only to recognize a trait that defines where we are in life but to capture or define it, that's an event worth celebrating.

On another level here, you've reminded us of the poignancy (or is it panic?) that results when one realizes that one's days are limited and that the things with which one is occupied matter more than ever.