Pinpricks of light wink and twinkle in the milky smear that runs across the night sky.
In the distance yellow light brightly glows through narrow windows, eclipsed at times.
Two pairs of sure steps on the hard stone road echo from old walls and empty homes.
Hands held, their breath mingles as they stop and gently kiss in the clear and frosty air.
They continue onward, closer now, the smell of turf smoke drifting in the too-still night.
Laughter pierces from the briefly opened door, then a booming voice erupts and flows.
A trail of twisted sparks appears then dies in the sky above the clay-fired chimney pot.
A stealing cat weaves between their slowing feet, now the door is within reach. A sigh.
The latch is thumbed, the door pushed. Heat and light spill out alongside jumbled noise.
Inside the place, the cold eyes of warm bodies settle briefly on theirs, then turn away.
They walk together to the altar of hardened timber, of wet rings, of offerings, of wants.
The curate’s eye caught, the await the ritual of the pour. Two bottles, two glasses. One look.
A fireside seat found, burning peat hides brazen faces. Low voices, and glares and glances.
They raise their glasses to their lips and drink as one. Darkness and bitterness wash over.
They go to leave, but then a fiddle strikes, a box joins, and a stick beats time against a skin.
One knows this melody and now their voice sings clear and strong of love’s desire. All quieten.
Hurting haunting silence, then hands bang on tables and some nod approval, but to what?
Then, placed with them, two small glasses filled with amber warmth and guarded tolerance.
The music starts again, and the lovers drink, content as now inner passion fills their hearts.
Outside snow begins to fall, twirling and swirling, its flat flakes all different but all the same.
Liam K
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