Old Ways

The cold wind heard me,
in unhappy youth;
as I stood, alone,
because a child
who listened to the mountain,
followed clouds,
was too strange, too
different, to befriend.

In the winter's depth,
I prayed the wind
to enter me, to freeze
my heart to ice.
In that winter time, I ceased,
at last, to shiver pain.

And you, who sought me;
broke my ice with fire;
found the core
of conflagration, passion,
and of pain;
who loved it, back to flame –
are you surprised
there is a darkness,
still, that seeks to hide,
to bar itself
behind a frigid wall?

I have been, too long,
a shadow, sketched
on lonely stone. And, yet,
this is not me.
It is my coward mind,
pretending pride
for fear of wounds.

My greater self, my heart –
that does know love,
knows pain, and passion’s
fire – rejects
the winter's grasp,
and strains, to touch
the starlight
in your eyes.

© Simon J Ashcroft, 2025

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