It's frigid in the field of the ghost trees.
The furrows concealed,
in a corrugated winter cloak.
The stick guides him back to his home.
His back a frozen slab, his slack skin
an invitation to the frost.
He reaches the well worn door
and enters the sadistic warmth.
10 a.m above the pendulum,
as always upon his return.
The velvet crush of the winged chair
spotted black with spits of fire.
The decanter with its fire inside
and the beauty of repitition.
Head against the wing,
fire water, wetting and heating
his leathered dry phlegm throat.
He thinks of the ghosts
of the past of this room
his wife, his father, his mother.
He lifts the checked flap of his pocket
and reaches for the tablets inside.
The door opens, she is home,
sweet Tessa, so adoring of old bones,
for her very sweet hope to inherit.
He pops his blue pill with his whisky,
undoes his trousers,
as he does at 10.10.
He awaits her sweet hand
to follow the old rhythm
of the pendulum.
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