This Winter’s Night
I sit here wondering what to write? My chamber is quiet, not even a mouse about,
I look to see where he may be, his entrance black as coal, no mouse may leave or
enter there, the black cat rests it’s clawed fang in front, so mouse please beware.
Leaning back in my creaky seat, I move uncomfortably about, tapping my fingers
wondering as my stand up clock chimes its midnight bong.
The old house is empty but for the cat and mouse and hooting owl outside
sitting cautiously, wise eyed and twisting neck, looking beyond this Universe.
My crystal stem I caress and lift it to my lips, the red within is fine,
the tasty grape vintage to my lips as a sip I take and tap my page in front
of me, laying blank awaiting my caress of words that linger somewhere
within my soul, to be snatched from the air.
Crackling noises do I hear from my stone hearth, I see the flickering tongue,
the flame dancing like a voodoo woman charmer, reaching, twisting, hissing
and wanting to reach the chimney and into the darkest of nights?
Below my chair I see a lonely scurrying spider webbing its silken wire in
haste, for tonight it awaits its prey, I see beyond a roach approaching and
with haste the spider conspires.
I linger in thought, wondering what may I pen this night, I’ve often lost
myself in wasted words, my basket is full of parchment amounting to
nothing more than cries of pity, darkest gloomy tales, hell to back again,
crying for the lost loves I nurtured with my kindness and lost forever never
to find again.
I look to my window and there the snow flakes are falling, the night is
white, the wind is gently blowing, a distinct low howling wind seeping
through the cracks to let me know winter is nigh. Soon the carolers
will be heard, the trees lit up with colored lights and there she will be
my Princess beckoning me to come out and play.
Oh how I remember her well, we skated the frozen pond and kissed
so tenderly under the full moon, hot chocolate and romantic words
we exchanged, making promises that said forever me and you then
like a dying mist she vanished into the night. My gloom in this room
lingers with so many fond memories as I take my pen in hand to write
once more as night fades into morn and the candle light dims my eyes
to sleep this chilly winter night.
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.