Teatime of the Night

Wind flowing strong,
weaving round turns.
Biting through coats,
so cold it burns.

A dark night rising,
fog cloying like treacle.
A soup to be lost in,
hiding the steeple.

Air rattles panes,
disturbing my slumber.
What could this be,
the end of my number?

Wrangling my wits,
I recall where I am.
Time for a snack,
like a nice leg of ham.

I open the fridge,
to see what I spy.
The empty shelves,
bring a tear to my eye.

A post inspired by today’s Daily Prompt Trio No. 3 | The Daily Post.

Tagged with: , , , , , , , , ,
Posted in Daily Prompt, L5GN, Poetry

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