Umbriate Press Poetry

Prospects are hunger and cold.

I cherish the icy wind

It awakens my suffering

Reminds me I am still alive

Having burned my furniture

To heat a bitter hut

So it is only a cold one

Having nothing more than

A few cups of wine left

I will drink them without delay

Before the wine freezes on my lips

If I do not wake tomorrow

So much the better for having

Taken sleep curled around

An empty jug

Brain filled with tipsy dreams

Of a warm wind sweeping

Over my spring garden