Not a blazing fire, but one where small flames
Lick hot coals lazily and the grate sighs,
On a dark evening where a lost owl flies
Above bats, that collide with window frames;
In the smart street where visitors have no names,
The doorways where lovers say their goodbyes,
Near the gardens where last week's snow still lies
And the alleyways, where we once played games.
Not a blazing fire, but a gentle heat
Just enough to warm our outstretched hands
And melt the ice clinging to shuffling feet,
Before the hearth where the coal scuttle stands,
The place where winter and the New Year meet,
Where the chimney smokes and a hot spark lands.

David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool. David has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry First Cut (2012), Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016). He also has a collection in Welsh Eglwys Yng Nghremona (2017). His work has also appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies worldwide.
You can find out more about David at
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