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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Hope Not Lost

Walk, now, with me, my love,
the ways we knew;
the paths of ancient fire
that bound our lives;
and know, though sickness, pain,
though life, itself,
conspires to take our joy,
we will not yield.

My hand is yours, to take,
and love may heal
a hurt that seems too deep
for flesh alone;
one day, the sky will smile,
the wind caress,
and sea surge passion's tides
to salve your heart.

Together, let's recall
our footsteps, on
the shore, and how the sea
kissed them away;
this day has pain to spare,
but, let our love
through darkness, bear you on,
to our, shared day.

© Simon J Ashcroft, 2025

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