Shreds: “Dark at Four”

Aye, ‘tis strange, it grows dark at four,
Thou clingest to the tea, in thine old vice,
The cat’s eyes are lost in the fog, once more,
While I, in my garb, preach counsel unwise;

Thou heed’st me not, yet dost thou hear,
How for a month or so, mayhap,
We dwell together but drift no near,
I, the thorn, and thou, the rose ‘n my trap.

Aye, ‘tis strange, still dark at four,
Thou clingest to me with a whispered “nay”,
I smoke, lost upon the roof’s old floor,
Thou, lost within thy pages o’ yesterday;

And I heed thee not, yet do I feel,
How after this eve, so bitter and plain,
We’ll be but a breath in the wind’s cold keel,
Never the same, never the same again.