Interlude of Homeward

~~ Lyra Fenelle, 16 June 2025

At the bend, the light takes flight,

scattering gold in the falling night.

The path unwinds through rustling shade,

where fractured leaves and silence braid.

A maple etches sky with grace,

each branch a line, each line a trace.

Its script is bare; the ink is air—

a fleeting thought the winds declare.

The swing hangs still in the quiet park,

its ropes like echoes in the dark.

No laughter now, no feet to rise,

just frost that waits beneath the skies.

The hearth begins to breathe and burn,

its smoke a scent the flames return.

It tells of warmth, of hands once near,

of winter’s hush and drawing nigh.

Smoke climbs and blends with drifting cloud,

the sky forgets to wear its gown.

No edge remains—just soft unspun,

where smoke and cloud dissolve as one.

The western light begins to bloom,

a sunset burst in silent plume—

like distant fireworks, bright but slow,

that flare, then fade, behind the snow.

We wandered where the backyard grows,

beneath tall boughs where twilight glows.

The trees stood still, the air was blue—

so much unknown, yet clear with you.