Dry Tinder


Across my garden from the window
          Bright as a square sun
               Childrens laughter.
          Chuckles,
Whispers,
Playtime at the feet of the foothills of sleep.

Their merriment ignites the evening,
          Echoes pasts long doused:
               Deep into the mine
          Of me
They fall,
Sparking the dry tinder of my dark.

© R.G. Bishop