The fire crackles in the grate,
shadows dancing with smoke tendrils as she reads
aloud, cloaked figures sneaking through her voice
to my wondering ears
as I cling to the embroidered arm of her chair.
The ritual nightly, yet never dull.
I play with the bobble on her slippers as she pauses to sip
Lady Grey from her fine china cup
then places it back on the saucer.
Resuming her place as though no pause had been taken
she leads me into the night
to meet the King of Dreams.
When I wake, the fire is dead
and her chair is cold,
its colours faded.
Treeshallow Musings 