Empty but filling.
This old house,
me and my old dog,
done in by a good long walk
in the cold.
Stove emptied
of last night’s ash
and filled carefully
with kindling.
Cold empty house
filling
with old-world-warmth.
Dog in his chair,
me in mine,
but what of this guilt
filling me, this house,
edging into this poem?
Just a few hours alone,
beside warming wood-stove
reading and writing poems.
Empty, or maybe not.
Filling, or perhaps
already quite full
of joy
ferocious memory
tea and meaning.
Meaning and
unmeaning
making worry
and worlds
to fill this
cold but warming
space
where I place
myself amidst
belonging and
warm mugs
and winter morning.
Growing
a fire
beside me
inside me
spreading
heat, hindsight
and light.
Jonas Lamb 