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Snowdrops, raindrops
tap softly on the roof;
trees rustle,
snowshoes crunch
in quiet measure beyond the door.
The fireplace crackles,
a teapot whistles,
a book opens with a tired creak,
pages breathing life into the room.
Laughter and flirtation,
arguments and fights,
echo faintly down corridors and spill
into London’s Regency streets and lamplit grounds,
where moments stretch past sense and propriety.
Burlesque theaters glow with imagined scandal,
cricket balls arc, summoning fiery sirens,
archery bows hum;
and so does she, when his touch is too close.
The Egyptian Hall dazzles with cultivated wonder.
An owl hoots,
a sharp thread pulling one free from the page.
A sip of tea.
And willingly,
one is lost again.
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