Supper

Gather round, broken souls

“Time is still a flying”

Sit and stare into the fire

Watch the children of warmth and wood

Dancing in the night

Share around the plates and bowls

Made of pewter and stone

Spoons and fork, not made of silver

Pass them round and round

Come, have a piece of comfort

Plucked straight from a stick amidst the fire

Burnt black like coal – but peel off the covers

To find inside a golden joy

Here, have a bowl of confidence

And strength regain back once again

Scalding hot like melted iron – but blow on gently

To find within a liquid life

And so, broken souls, we laugh, forget, and heal